


Let Us Give Thanks

by DiamondBlue4



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Genius Jim, Iowa, Riverside, Thanksgiving, Young James T. Kirk, Young Jim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2019-02-05 08:06:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12790326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiamondBlue4/pseuds/DiamondBlue4
Summary: Instead of enjoying Thanksgiving with his family in San Francisco, Commander Christopher Pike is ordered to Riverside, Iowa - and the Kirk household. He's been instructed to make sure that the Widow Kirk and her two children, Jimmy and Sam, have a good holiday. But he's the one who has a Thanksgiving to remember.





	Let Us Give Thanks

**Author's Note:**

> My first Trek story is a sincere thank-you to all my favorite authors. You’ve given me hours of reading pleasure, for which I am deeply grateful.  
> As for the story itself — yes, I know it’s not canon. But I adore Pike. And Jim Kirk is a character for the ages, no matter his age.  
> And I couldn’t have done this without Amy, who has given me unlimited encouragement. Thank you, my friend.

 

LET US GIVE THANKS

            “She can’t possibly want a stranger showing up at her house for the holiday!” Realizing his appalled response bordered on being disrespectful, however honest it might be, he added a quick, “Sir.”

            Lt. Commander Christopher Pike was aghast, caught between an unmoving rock and an uncomfortably hard place. When he had been summoned to Admiral Josetti’s office, he had been surprised and curious but not worried. After all, he’d received a stellar review from his former captain, a rank promotion would be his in two weeks and, most importantly, he’d done nothing against regs while on leave to warrant the disciplinary attention of an admiral.

            Admiral Josetti had been welcoming, ordering him to sit after the standard preliminaries, and Chris had relaxed a bit mentally, while keeping his posture erect in the comfortable chair. They had discussed his recent assignment on the USS Olympus; the Admiral pleased to hear that his duties had been both rewarding and educational, and congratulated him on his upcoming assignment and promotion to full Commander on the USS Aldrin.

            From there, the conversation had travelled over more social ground: Was he enjoying his leave, while the Aldrin was being refitted? (“Yes, sir.”) Was he planning on spending Thanksgiving with his family? (“No, sir. My sister is all I have left, and she and her husband are off-planet for the next few weeks.”) Was he seeing anyone special here in San Francisco? (“No, sir.)

            Looking pleased, the Admiral had cleared his throat and leaned back in his chair, the leather whispering softly in the sudden silence. Then, he had dropped his bombshell.

            “That’s very good news, Pike. Since you’re free of any family or romantic entanglements, Starfleet has a short assignment for you.” Pushing a folder across the gleaming desk toward him, he announced, “You are to leave today for Iowa. We have a shuttle standing by to take you there once you’re packed.”

            Chris picked up the folder. “Iowa, sir?”

            “We want you to spend Thanksgiving with Commander Winona Kirk and her sons. Show her Starfleet hasn’t forgotten her. All the information you’ll need is in the file.”

            Shocked, he had blurted out his objection, and then inwardly cringed at the tense silence that followed his outburst.

            The Admiral eyed him, narrowly.

            “Sorry, sir.” Mouth dry, he desperately wished for a drink. _Preferably a double._

            “Commander Kirk has been…difficult, since losing her husband in the line of duty. There’s no dependable family left for her to lean on, so Starfleet has tried to pick up the slack by providing support during difficult times. Like the holidays. When she allows it.”

            _Jesus._ It was sounding worse, the more the Admiral talked _._

            “She’s had some issues since the loss of the Kelvin. Initially, she was diagnosed with post-partum depression. Once she finished treatment for that, she fired the day help we’d provided, saying she wanted her privacy back.”

            The Admiral grimaced. “We’ve continued to try to maintain contact over the years. The medical team assigned to her and the boy continues to be concerned about both of them. They believe her obsessive need for privacy indicates she’s still struggling with depression. Which will have to be addressed if, and when, she decides to return to active duty. And the boys are a handful, particularly Jimmy, so that doesn’t help her stress levels. Which in turn…”

            Pike cleared his throat. “And you think introducing a stranger into the mix is going to be seen as helpful, sir?”

            Josetti’s eyes hardened. “Helpful? Likely not. Winona Kirk is no typical grieving wife and, in general, wants nothing to do with Starfleet’s friendly offers of assistance. She likes to keep herself and her sons far away from the public eye and believes we are using George Kirk’s death and the Remembrance Day commemorations to feather our own nest. She’s refused to participate in the memorial services and I’ve lost count of the number of times she’s terminated our calls mid-sentence.”

            Chris winced, wondering how the hell she’d managed not to be brought up on charges of insubordination? George Kirk, however, was considered a hero by the public, as well as by Starfleet, and news that the same agency her husband died defending, was now prosecuting her, would not be good PR.

            Then another horrifying thought struck.

            “Does she know someone is coming, sir?”

            The Admiral snorted. “Do we look stupid, Lt. Commander?“ And just as Chris began to relax, continued on with, “Of course, we didn’t tell her. The last time we did that, she refused to answer the door when our representative arrived. She would likely refuse to let us send someone at all, if we tried to get her permission ahead of time.”

            _Fuck. Shit. Damn._

            Chris felt ill. “What makes you think she’ll accept my help, sir? Or even let me in the house?”

            The Admiral smiled without humor. “I have every confidence in you, Lt. Commander, based on your record. Captain Singh stated in your review that you were a real asset on the Olympus.” He touched the screen on his desk. “And I quote, “Exceptionally resourceful with a knack for finding good solutions to problems. Able to think well on his feet, and under stress.” One blunt finger tapped the desk, as if to underscore his words. “You sound to me like the ideal candidate to deal with Winona Kirk. And I’m counting on you to give those boys an enjoyable Thanksgiving Day.” His dark eyes warmed briefly. “Good luck, Pike. You’re dismissed.”

            Chris managed to keep his dismay from showing on his face and got to his feet, folder in hand. Smartly snapping off a salute, he said, “Thank you, sir,” nearly choking on the irony and quickly left the office.

            It looked like he was spending Thanksgiving Day in Iowa.

 

*         *         *

 

            Like the proverbial cherry on the top of this holiday visit shit-sundae, it was spitting snow when he exited the shuttle in Riverside, Iowa. The lowering, gray cloud cover made it seem later in the day than it was and did nothing to enhance the flat, brown countryside.

            Chris made short work of claiming his bag from the crewman unloading the shuttle, anxious to get out of the biting cold.   He was a dozen brisk steps along the walk leading to the shuttle office when, suddenly, the same crewman hailed him again, halting his progress.

            “Lt. Commander!”

            Chris turned, the snow now directly in his face, stinging his cheeks. “Yes?”

            “There’s some boxes here with your name on them, sir.”

            “Are you sure they’re mine? I only brought this duffle with me,” he said, giving the item a little lift for emphasis.

            The man shrugged. “Identification says ‘Property of Lt. Commander Christopher Pike.’ Isn’t that you, sir?”

            Since he’d just claimed a duffle using that name, he wanted to say ‘you idiot, of course, that’s me.’

            Instead, he swallowed his irritation at the delay and retraced his steps.

            Sure enough, two big boxes, and one smaller one, rested on the floor of the shuttle’s open cargo department, emblazoned in bold letters with his name. Apparently, Starfleet thought he needed more than what he could pack in a duffle bag for a two-day stay.

            All he wanted to do was find a comfortable chair, a warm fire and a glass of good whiskey – in that order – somewhere out of the cutting wind. But what he _wanted_ didn’t matter, as he was unlikely to find it in Riverside, Iowa. He had his orders; what he _needed_ was to get moving on his assignment.

            “Is it possible you could have these loaded into my rental vehicle, crewman? There’s supposed to be one at the gate.”

            “No problem, sir,” the crewman said. “But if you give me a minute to get these loaded on the cargo-carrier you can ride with me. It’s not all that comfortable, but it’ll be warmer than walking in this weather.”

            “Is it always like this in November?” he asked.

            “Usually worse. Snow is late this year.” He grinned, despite the foul weather. “Your shuttle got in before the worst of it arrives. We’re supposed to get six to eight inches by nightfall. It’ll be our first good snow of the year.”

            “Sounds delightful,” Chris said, drily.

            “You more of a warm-weather kind of man, sir?”

            Chris nodded. “I have a cabin in the Mojave. It gets cold at night this time of year but a good fire fixes that. And it’s tee-shirt weather in the daytime.”

            “Sounds like a nice place, sir. What brings you to Riverside?” The crewman picked up the smaller box. It obviously had some weight to it, but he managed it easily, despite the bulk of his coveralls. “Follow me, and I’ll get you seated in the cab of the cargo-carrier. It’s not your cabin in the Mojave, sir, but it’ll keep you warm, at least.”        

            “Sounds good,” Chris said, meaning it, as a wind gust sent icy particles of snow beneath his collar.

            Fortunately, it was only a short distance to the vehicle and he was soon seated on the worn seat with hot air blowing on his hands and feet. And surprisingly soon after that, he heard the remaining boxes thump into the cargo bed. The driver door opened on a wash of cold air, before hastily closing. The crewman blew on his hands for a minute, to warm them, before he put the vehicle in motion, steering a careful course forward on the snow-slick pavement.

            “You never said, sir, why you were in Riverside.”

            “Just a short holiday visit.”

            “Friends or family?”

            He couldn’t say “neither”, so he settled for the response that was the lesser lie. “Friends.”

            Chris hoped that saying it out loud would somehow make it come true. If it didn’t, and Winona Kirk ran him off her property, he might be having a very short stay in Riverside.

 

*         *         *

 

            Forty minutes and countless curses later, Chris maneuvered the e-car off the snow-covered road and into the drive leading to the Kirk farmhouse. And cursed, again, as it bounced along old ruts beneath the deepening snow, jarring his bones.

            If it hadn’t been for the nav-system, he would never have found it. An aging mailbox, without any name or numbers, leaned drunkenly next to the poorly maintained drive. Giving it a wide berth, Chris drove at a snail’s pace up the drive toward the farmhouse, not really seeing it clearly until he brought the car to a halt, and turned off the power.

            It didn’t look very welcoming but that could be the weather and its color. The house sat amidst a few tall trees, all of which had shed their leaves, leaving them to wave naked limbs in the stiff wind, like desperate people waving you away from the scene of an accident. And the farmhouse was white, causing it to nearly fade into the background of the snowy landscape.

            A broad porch ran across the front, already collecting small drifts of snow. While the exterior looked surprisingly well maintained, it lacked any of the small, welcoming touches normally found on homes. No glowing outside lights to brighten the dark afternoon. No porch furniture or colorful flower planters. No holiday decorations…except for two paper hands, one bigger than the other, colored to resemble a turkey, that had been affixed to the front window closest to him.

            Which made him stop to consider the boys’ ages based on the folder of information he’d read on the shuttle trip.

            Jimmy was easy; the whole world knew his age. Born two and a half months premature, he would be three this coming January. George, Jr., known as Sam, within the family, was six years older, so he had turned eight this year. The small hand was no doubt Jimmy’s; the bigger hand, on closer examination, looked _too_ big to be Sam’s, and was strangely proportioned, as well.

            Shrugging the mystery aside, Chris exited the car and waded through the snow to the porch steps. He mounted them gingerly, given the state of the drive, but they were solid enough under his feet, as was the porch he crossed to reach the front door. He took a moment to knock the snow off his shoes before ringing the bell.

            All was quiet for a long moment, before the sound of small, thundering feet could be heard through the door. The lock clicked and the knob slowly turned, then the door swung open to reveal a small boy in the open doorway.

            “Why are you at my house, mister man?”

            Chris stared at the youngster, feeling like he was standing on shaky ground after all.

            This had to be James Tiberius Kirk, or Jimmy, according to the file. Chris had been expecting a toddler, one not long out of babyhood. Not this cheerful-faced, confident-voiced, articulate little _person._

            As impressive as his language skills might be, his appearance left a lot to be desired. He lacked pants, for one thing. And his tired-looking underpants were clearly hand-me-downs from his older brother, since they barely stayed on his non-existent hips. His tee shirt did little to ameliorate the lack of clothing. Long since outgrown, the hem rode high on his tummy. One small, slender foot was bare; the other sported a sock that was pink.

            “Aren’t you cold?” Chris asked, before he could stop himself, shivering in reaction to all the bare skin exposed to the snowy elements.

            The blue, blue eyes flashed with glee. “I built a fire. Want to see?”

            _Damn it to hell_ , he thought, _was the house on fire?_ “Yes,” he agreed hastily. “I’d like to see it right now.”

            “Okay. Follow me. But be sure to shut the door. Mommy says the door has to be shut at all times.”

            Chris entered the house, quickly closing the front door, and hurried to follow the child who was now rocketing down the silent hallway. He was amazingly fast for his size.

            _Where the hell was everyone?_

            Jimmy abruptly turned to his left, disappearing through a broad archway.

            When Chris caught up, he found the little boy squatting in front of a large stone fireplace. The floor in front of it was littered with twigs and paper scraps.

            “See, Mister Man?” he said, picking up one of a number of strips of orange and yellow colored paper with a grubby hand. “I moved the ashes, then I made the teepee. Now you add fire,” he said in a singsong voice, carefully feeding the paper through a gap in the twigs. “Just like on Mommy’s PADD.”

            Chris blinked.

            Still squatting, Jimmy tilted his head to look at Chris directly. His little face was both earnest and dreamy. “Don’t worry, Mister Man. It’s just pretend. Mommy says I can’t build a real fire until I’m big. Like Sam.”

            Chris took a long moment to allow his adrenalin-fueled brain to process all he was seeing before he, too, squatted next to the child.

            “Where’s your Mom, Jimmy?”

            “Sleeping. Her head is hurting again.” The boy turned back to feed another piece of ‘fire’ into his surprisingly well-constructed twig teepee. “She took the red pills. She takes the red ones when it hurts a lot.”

            “Where’s Sam?”

            “At Johnny’s house.”

            “Who the hell is Johnny?”

            The small head swiveled around. “Mommy says you’re not supposed to say hell.”

            ‘Mommy says’ was obviously on a par with Moses and the Ten Commandments. “Sorry,” Chris said automatically.

            “That’s okay, Mister Man. I fa’give you.”

            “Thanks, Jimmy. Now, can you tell me who Johnny is and why Sam is at his house?”

            Jimmy abandoned his fireplace project and stood up, his indignation clear. “A’course I can. Johnny is Sam’s friend. Sam likes him ‘cause he has lots and lots of games. And food. Like cookies.” A crafty look crossed his face. “Can you make cookies, Mister Man?”

            Chris laughed, rising to his feet. This kid was a force of nature. “First things first. Let me talk to your Mom, then we can investigate the kitchen for booty.”

            “What’s booty, Mister Man?”

            “The good stuff, Jimmy.”

            “Cookies are good. And chocolate milk.”

            Chris laughed, again, and held out his hand. “That they are, my small friend, that they are. Now, how about we go upstairs together and, after I’ve talked with your Mom, we find some pants and a new shirt for you? You’re giving me chills just looking at you.”

            Small, slender fingers tugged at the high-riding shirt hem. “All my other clothes are dirty.”

            He couldn’t let the kid continue to run around in minimal clothing. If Winona Kirk was unable or unwilling to take care of her young sons, then it was probably a damn good thing Josetti had sent him, after all.   Mentally sighing, he moved ‘laundry’ to the top of the mental ‘to-do’ list he was compiling, and said brightly, “That’s no problem, Jimmy. I’m a whiz at using the refresher.”

            “Can I watch?”

            “Sure. You can show me your favorites and we’ll take care of those first. We’ll get everything shipshape before you know it.”

            Jimmy studied his face for a moment, then offered his grubby hand to Chris. “Okay, Mister Man. That sounds like a good plan. Mommy says you should always have a good plan in mind when you do important things. ‘Cause if you don’t, consekenses can be awful.”

            ‘Mommy’ was beginning to sound more and more like a prescient saint. “Do you know what that word means? Consequences?”

            Jimmy nodded vigorously. “It means what happens after. Like when I was ‘sperimenting to see if I could teach squirrels to play with Darby.”

            “Who’s Darby?”  
            “Our dog. Well, he was Sam’s dog first. But now he’s my dog, too.”

            “And the squirrels?” Chris prompted, equal parts dread and fascination building.

            “Darby wants to play with squirrels but they always run away before they see how nice he is. So, I caughted one in my trap. But it was raining and Darby didn’t want to come outside, ‘cause he was resting by the fire.” He looked at Chris, earnestly. “A real fire. Mommy made it.”

            “And then what happened?” Chris asked, already bracing himself for what he just _knew_ was coming.

            “I brung the cage inside. I put it right next to Darby, so the squirrel could see him.” The little boy sighed deeply. “But they didn’t like each other, after all. Darby started barking at the squirrel and he wouldn’t stop. The squirrel got madder and madder. He was jumping all around in the cage and making noise, too.”

            “Where was your Mom?”

            “In the shower. But she heard all the noise and came downstairs. She had shampoo in her hair and she got the rug all wet.” He giggled. “She looked silly. An’ then she picked up the cage but she slipped ‘cause the floor was wet. And the cage fell. And the door broke. And Darby starting chasing the squirrel.”

            _Good God._ “The squirrel escaped from the cage? In the house?”

            “Uh huh.” The blonde head nodded vigorously. “They ran everywhere. Darby was barking. The squirrel was jumping. He was fast. Mommy was yelling.” He sighed. “She opened all the doors and chased the squirrel with a broom. He finally ran outside. But not ‘afore he and Darby broke two lamps an’ pulled down the living room curtains. And Mommy says not to forget about all the scratches on the furniture. Then, I tried to help clean up all the broken stuff and cut my finger. Mommy had to get dressed really fast and take me to the ‘mergency room.” He scrunched his face. “I _don’t_ like hospitals or ‘mergency rooms or doctors.”

            “Me, either.” Avoiding sickbay was a passion of his.

            “An’ when we got home, Mommy made me take a time out in my room for the _whole day_! But, once she finished her shower, she came back and we talked about avoiding bad consekenses in the future.”

            “Yep, you definitely know what consequences are,” Chris agreed, faintly. And as they reached the stairs and began to slowly climb them, he said firmly, “While I’m here, I want you to check with your Mom or me before you do any more experiments. Can you do that, yeoman?”

            “Yeoman,” Jimmy echoed, delightedly. “What’s a yeoman?”

            “An assistant who follows the orders of their assigned superior.”

            “What’s a ‘signed su-peer-e-or?” Jimmy asked, sounding out the new word.

            “Me. I would be your superior officer and you would be my assistant.”

            “I like pretend games,” Jimmy said, excitedly. “I can be a yeoman.”

            “That’s great,” Chris said, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “Let’s reconnoiter, yeoman, so we can evaluate the situation at hand.” He spoke in his officer’s voice. “Then we make our plans.”

            “Okay!” Jimmy began to hop up and down next to him, clearly excited, even if he didn’t understand all the big words. Although for all Chris knew, he did. He was beginning to understand that Jimmy was not your typical almost-three-year-old. Did Starfleet know?

            “Steady there, yeoman. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover. I’m counting on your able assistance.”

            The boy’s chest lifted proudly and the hopping immediately stopped. “Okay, Mister Man. Follow me, I’ll show you where Mommy sleeps.”

            Taking a steadying breath of his own, Chris allowed Jimmy to guide him to Winona Kirk’s bedroom. First things, first…

 

*         *           *

 

            Chris turned on the lamp on the bedside table and sat down gingerly on the side of the rumpled bed.

            “Commander? Commander?” he called softly. “Winona?”

            “Mommy? Mister Man needs to talk to you, Mommy!”

            Jimmy’s piping voice did what his soft and insistent one had not.

            Winona Kirk, rumpled, blonde hair tumbling messily around her pale face, opened her eyes and groaned, before quickly shutting them again.

            “I’ll fix you, Mommy.” Jimmy’s feet pattered away.

            _Where was the kid going?_

            Chris felt trapped in the circle of lamplight, torn between following Jimmy and the need to talk with Commander Kirk. It felt strange, almost disrespectful to be sitting, alone, on the edge of the women’s bed. Especially given her fierce reputation.

            “Commander, I need to speak with you. I have orders from Admiral Josetti –”

            Winona groaned again, cutting his words short. “Turn off the damn light and go away,” she said through gritted teeth. “Whoever you are, tell Josetti I said no, and just go away.”

            “Lt. Commander Christopher Pike, Ma’am. And I can’t,” Chris said, picking up the bottle of pills on the bedside table. _Azimerole._ He uncapped the bottle and took a quick look inside. Shiny, red capsules nearly filled the small bottle.

            “You have a migraine,” he said, the pieces slowly coming together.

            “Give yourself a gold star. Now get the hell out of my bedroom.”

            “I’m sorry,” he said, meaning it. “But there’s a few things I need to know before I can let you go back to sleep.”

            Jimmy suddenly appeared at his elbow.

            “Mommy? I have a cold cloth for your head.” He held out a dripping washcloth.

            Winona’s hand took it without looking, guided by some invisible means. “Thank you, baby,” she said, huskily.

            “Does your head still hurt, Mommy?”

            “Yes, baby, it does.”

            “I’m sorry, Mommy.”

            “It’ll be better soon, baby. I promise.”

            “Okay,” Jimmy said, solemnly.

            “Did you eat lunch?”

            Jimmy’s face brightened. “I made jam cake! And I saved you a piece, Mommy.”

            “That’s sweet, baby. Now, I want you to go to your room and have some quiet time. Can you do that?”

            “Okay, Mommy. “ He touched a dirty finger to the end of her nose. “Feel better, Mommy. I love you.”

            “I love you, too, baby.”

            Jimmy looked up at Chris, his expression clearly worried. He pulled on Chris’s arm, tugging at him until he bent his head. “You take care of my Mommy, Mister Man,” he whispered in the vicinity of his ear. I hafta go to my room.”

            “I will. I promise.”

            “Okay,” he said, and trailed out, looking forlorn.

            Chris sighed, wishing he could do the same. Some quiet time alone in his room sounded like an excellent idea.

            Instead, he did what he needed to, in order to follow the orders he’d been given.

            “Commander? I need a few words with you.”

            Winona’s eyelashes flickered, leaving narrow slits of dark blue regarding him balefully. “Why are you still here?”

            “Where’s Sam?”

            “Sam?” Her pale forehead pleated.

            “Your son. George Samuel Kirk, Jr.?”

            Her lips twisted. “I know my son’s name.”

            “Do you know where your son is?”

            “With our neighbors, the Orwin family. Their son and Sam are close friends.”

            “That would be Johnny?”

            “Jimmy has been his usual, chatty self, I see.”

            The pain lines on her face deepened and Chris realized guiltily that he was the cause. Talking was making her headache worse. But he needed to know the lay of the land.

            “When will he be home?”

            “Sunday. They invited Sam to go with them to Johnny’s grandmother’s home in Tampa for the Thanksgiving holidays.”

            He didn’t know if that information made things better or worse.

            “And what about Jimmy?”

            “What about him?”

            “You left a two-year-old on his own!”

            His raised voice had her wincing but he repressed the automatic apology that rose to his lips.

            “Jimmy knows the rules and his boundaries when I’m down with a migraine.”

            “He’s two!”

            She winced, and began rubbing her forehead. “Almost three. And he’s not like most three-year-olds.”

            _No shit._

            Chris sighed. He had no appetite for abusing the Commander’s painful head further. “Well, it’s a moot problem since I’m here now. And I’m not going anywhere. I couldn’t even if I wanted to due to the weather. You rest and get better, and I’ll take care of Jimmy. Now, what can I do to get you re-settled?”

            “Be sure to check with Jimmy before you give him anything to eat. He has some food allergies. The list is on the cool-freeze display screen. But, just in case, the epi-hypospray is in the cookie jar on the counter.”

            “Starfleet didn’t note any allergies in the information they gave me.”

            Winona snorted, then groaned in pain.

            “I take it keeping Starfleet updated isn’t high on your list?”

            The Commander didn’t bother responding, and Chris grimaced, annoyed at himself. This wasn’t an interrogation, after all.

            “Tell me what you need.”

            “You out of my bedroom, so I can sleep in peace, Lt. Commander.” She fumbled for the pill bottle, nearing knocking over a nearby glass of water.

            “Let me help,” Chris said. He uncapped the pills. “How many?”

            “Two. Please.”

            He helped her sit up enough to swallow the pills, then gently lowered her to her pillow.

            “Anything else?”

            “Take this,” she said, handing him the sodden washcloth.

            “I’ll put it in the bathroom.”

            “No.”

            Caught off-guard, Chris echoed, “No?”

            “Just wring it out a bit and bring it back. A cold cloth over my eyes helps.”

            Walking as quietly as possible, Chris did as she had directed.

            When he placed the neatly folded, cold cloth over her eyes and forehead, she sighed deeply and seemed to melt into the sheets.

            Leaving her in peace, if not in ease, he turned off the lamp and left the newly darkened bedroom, pulling the door softly closed behind him.

            James T. Kirk, the ‘not your usual almost three-year-old’, had known best what to do for his mother.

            _What the hell kind of situation had Josetti gotten him into?_

 

*        *           *

 

            Jimmy’s room was easy to find. The sturdy wooden door sported the brightly colored wooden block letters, JTK, and was the next room down from his mother’s. Across the hall from Jimmy’s room, a closed door held a sign that read ‘Keep Out – Private’ and underneath that someone – Sam, judging by the quality of the writing – had added ‘That means you Jimmy!’ causing Chris to grin, remembering a similar message that had once hung on his own childhood bedroom door.

            Chris knocked perfunctorily on Jimmy’s door before opening it, and entering.

            The room was surprisingly neat and orderly, if one ignored the open dresser drawers and the unmade bed that Jimmy was sprawled upon, engrossed in a PADD.

            He looked up at Chris, briefly, clearly engrossed in whatever was on the PADD’s screen. “Do you know about el’ments, Mister Man?”

            “Elments?” he echoed, confused. Did Jimmy mean ailments? Was he referring to his mother’s migraine?

            “Like hydrogen. An’ carbon. An’ gold.” He lifted the PADD to show Chris, revealing the periodic table with an element square currently highlighted. Now that Jimmy had freed the PADD from his nest of bed covers, Chris could hear that there was a sound component, as well, to whatever he was viewing, as a barely audible voice lectured the listener on the properties of lead.

            Caught off-guard by the topic, Chris cleared his throat. “Oh, elements. Some. You can’t graduate from Starfleet without learning some basic facts about the periodic table.”

            “That’s good, Mister Man. ‘Cause el’ments are very important. ‘An they’re magic.”

            He had been expecting to find Jimmy watching a children’s video, not this dry and technical lecture. “How so?”

            “’Cause they’re moving! But our eyes aren’t good ‘nuff to see it. Even with my mag’afying glass. Mommy says you need special ‘quipment.”

            “You have a smart Mommy, Jimmy.” _And she has a terrifyingly smart son._

            “I know,” he agreed happily. “We talk ‘bout lots of interesting things when her head doesn’t hurt.”

            Chris held out his hand. “How about we go downstairs? I need to unload the car and eat something for lunch.” On cue, his stomach growled. Jimmy giggled.

            “Okay, Mister Man. But I already had lunch. ‘Member? I made jam cake.”

            “Then you can have a second lunch, if you want to be sociable and keep me company. And Jimmy, my name is Chris. You can call me by my name.”

            Jimmy shut down the PADD and hurried to climb off the bed. “Okay, Mister Chris. Are we hobbits now, Mister Chris?”

            Chris tipped his head to the side. _Hobbits? Where had_ that _idea come from?_ “Do you want to be a hobbit?”

            “Yes!” Jimmy exclaimed. “Hobbits have a’ventures. I love a’ventures.” He held his arms out.

            “Okay, then,” Chris said, picking him up and settling him on one hip, surprised at how little he actually weighed. Jimmy felt light, like he was made entirely of bird-bones and laughter, a changeling child full of wonder and delight. “Hobbits, we are. Now, tell me. What do hobbits like to eat for lunch?”

            And Jimmy, with barely a pause, began to describe, in detail, the eating habits of hobbits as they went downstairs in search of lunch.

 

*         *         *

 

            The kitchen resembled the aftermath of a bar fight.

            An over-turned chair blocked the dripping sink, which was filled with dirty dishes. An unsealed loaf of bread, with several slices spilling onto the table, fought with blobs of red jam, some of which had been smeared into long sticky trails. Tiny, reddish fingerprints were visible on a surprising number of surfaces; evidence of the path a certain honorary yeoman had taken on his task of making a ‘jam cake’.

            His shoes began to stick to the floor half way into the room.

            Chris sighed, torn between taking the time to activate the house’s cleaning bots and satisfying his growing hunger. The sight of Jimmy’s expectant face made the decision for him.

            “Okay, yeoman Hobbit, let me brief you on the plan. First, I figure out what’s available in your replicator and cool-freeze to make a meal out of and, once we’ve finished eating, we get the cleaning bots going on the house. Starfleet personnel do not like dirty quarters and this kitchen is definitely messy, not to mention the mess we left in the living room.”

            Jimmy began to bounce in place next to him. “The rep’cator is broke, Mister Chris. Mommy says it’s old and cranky. She has to fix it all the time.” He beamed. “Mommy can fix anything.”

            _No doubt, considering she had been one of the ‘fleets finest engineers before the Kelvin tragedy._ “Not a problem,” Chris reassured him, adding ‘check the replicator’ to his mental list. “Let’s see what’s in the cool-freeze.”

            The kitchen’s cool-freeze unit was much larger and newer than he expected.

When he pressed his thumb to the control pad to open it, a warning immediately flashed up on the home-screen, just as Winona Kirk had said it would.

 

**MEDICAL ALERT!**

Current food allergies for James T. Kirk include:

Peanuts

Pineapple

Shellfish

Papaya

 

Please read the foods as listed **aloud** to clear this screen.

 

            _Christ. No wonder she kept an epi-hypospray in the cookie jar._

            Chris recited the items as requested, waited for the screen to clear, and pressed his thumb again to the open ‘button’ on the glass screen. The door promptly retracted, revealing a nearly empty interior.

            Two cartons of eggs, locally grown by the looks of them, occupied one shelf. A few condiments and a bottle of beer nestled together in one corner. A drawer held a lone stick of butter and some drying cheese squares.  

            Nothing else turned up in his search: no meat of any kind, no vegetables and no fruit.

            “Okay,” Chris said slowly, thinking furiously, “how about a fried egg and cheese sandwich? You’re not allergic to any of those things and eggs are good for your brain.”

            The bouncing stopped. “Why?”

            Intent on pulling the necessary items from the unit, Chris said, “Eggs are protein and they have nutrients that help the brain grow properly.”

            “Is your brain still growing?”

            “No. But yours is.”

            “Mommy says my brain is working a hundred miles an hour except for when I’m sleeping.”

            _I bet._

            “What other ‘new’treents does my brain need?”

            Chris shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not a doctor, so I’m not that familiar with brain chemistry, I’m afraid.”

            Jimmy gave his leg a hug. “Don’t worry, Mister Chris. I’ll figure it out with my Mommy’s PADD and let you know.”

            Chris smiled and stroked Jimmy’s pale blond head. “That sounds like a fine plan, yeoman Hobbit. Now, tell me, how brown do you like your sandwiches?”

            Twenty minutes later, feeling replete, Chris leaned back in a now jam-free chair and said, “I’ve been thinking.”

            “’Bout what?” Jimmy asked, the last piece of his sandwich suspended in mid-air, as curiosity appeared to win out over hunger.

            “Which order we should do all our tasks in, so that we can accomplish as much as possible while your Mom is sleeping.”

            “Oh,” Jimmy said thoughtfully, biting off half the remaining portion, chewing slowly.

            Chris let the silence continue, wondering what would emerge from Jimmy’s mouth when he spoke. The kid was a font of information, and he wasn’t shy about expressing his opinions.

            _I like my sammiches cut in fingers, Mister Chris. Not halves or triangles. Finger shapes are easier to eat._

_Careful, Mister Chris, we only gots cold water today. Cold water hurts my hands, too. Maybe you should build a real fire, like Mommy does, an’ warm them up._

_Mommy said our kitchen was getting as bare as Mother Hubble’s cupboard an’ that we needed to go to town but then she got the pain in her head. Who’s Mother Hubbles, Mister Chris? Why doesn’t she have any food?_

_You make good sammiches, Mister Chris. My brain is saying thank you right this minute._

            Finally, Jimmy nodded. “You mean we need to be ‘fficient.”

            Chris blinked. “That’s right.” Then, his own curiosity getting the better of him, “Did your Mom teach you that word?”

            “I heard it on Mommy’s PADD an’ I looked it up.”

            “That was smart.”

            “I learn lots of new words that way. But my tongue sometimes doesn’t pa’nounce them the way my brain wants them to.”

            “That’s okay,” Chris said. “I understand what you’re trying to say.”

            “So does Mommy,” Jimmy said, eating the last bite of his sandwich with a happy swing of his feet.

            “That’s good. Now, you listen closely and see if I’ve missed anything.” Chris smiled as Jimmy’s brow furrowed in concentration. “We need to fix the hot water situation. We need to do laundry. We need to start the house bots on a cleaning cycle but we’ll have to tell them which rooms we want cleaned, and which ones to leave alone. We need to get my duffle and the boxes out of my car. I need to find a room to sleep in and make up the bed. We need to fix the replicator, or we’ll be eating scrambled eggs and toast for dinner. And you need a bath before you go to bed. Did I forget anything?”

            “I like baths. With bubbles. And bedtime stories,” Jimmy said promptly. “I gets three stories a’fore bedtime.”

            “Sure, we’ll add that to the list,” Chris said.

            “And we haf’ta feed Darby his dinner.”

            _The dog._

            “Where is Darby?” Chris asked anxiously, imagining a frozen family pet would not be welcome news to Commander Kirk.

            “He’s in the barn. Mommy says he has to stay there when she’s not feeling good. Darby likes the barn. It has a door just his size for going out when he needs to do his business.”

            Relief washed through him.   “Good. You can show me his food when it’s time to feed him.”

            “Okay.”

            “Anything else?”

            Jimmy shook his head. “Nope. But I might think of more later.”

            Chris smiled. “It’s likely we both will. Now, yeoman Hobbit, which task should we tackle first?”

            “I’m just a yeoman now, Mister Chris. Second lunch is over.”

            “Just yeoman it is, then. So, yeoman, what are your thoughts on a first task?”

            “We should fix the hot water first.” Jimmy’s electric blue eyes were unexpectedly serious. “’Cause we’ll need lots of hot water to do the laundry.”

            Chris nodded, impressed, yet again, with the child’s mental abilities. “I agree, yeoman. Do you know where the tools and hot water heater are?”

            “Follow me, Mister Chris,” Jimmy said excitedly, as he wriggled down from his chair seat. “Mommy says the water heater box is a heartless witch but she always shows it she’s the boss.”

            Chris laughed at Jimmy’s innocent rendering of Winona Kirk’s expletive. “Let’s hope, yeoman, that I’m as lucky in my dealings with the faulty equipment.”

            And with an unexpectedly light heart, given the daunting list to be accomplished, he followed the pint-sized bundle of energy from the kitchen.

 

*         *         *

 

_“…I was walking in the night and I saw nothing scary. For I have never been afraid of anything. Not very. Then I was deep within the woods when, suddenly, I spied them. I saw a pair of pale green pants with nobody inside them!”_

            In what felt like years – but was in reality only hours – later, Chris sat in a comfortable armchair reading Jimmy his third, and last, bedtime story. A fire burned brightly in the fireplace, transforming the newly cleaned living room into a warm and cozy retreat. A cut-crystal glass, with a few fingers of whiskey in it, sat within easy reach on the side table, sparkling in the light of the table lamp.

            Jimmy was a warm, boneless weight on his lap, his head resting against Chris’s chest as he read from the classic Dr. Seuss book.

            It had been astonishing, earlier, to see all the real books carefully shelved on the red bookcase in Jimmy’s room.

            “They belonged to my Daddy, Mister Chris,” Jimmy had reported proudly.

            “Your Dad liked real books? That’s unusual. Most people prefer their PADD for reading.”

            “Uh huh. And I like real books, too.” The small boy had quickly selected a large-sized book with a cover imprinted with colorful characters in shades of blue and green. “This one has lots of good stories. You’ll like them, Mister Chris.”

            And he _had_ liked them. He had also liked settling into the well-padded armchair, with a clean and sweet-smelling little boy fresh from his bath, dressed in a pair of clean pajamas, eager for his bedtime stories. The stories had been charmingly whimsical. The whiskey, a sip at a time, had unknotted his shoulders along with his tongue. The nonsensical verses had flowed easily, and Jimmy seemed to enjoy his relaxed reading style, giggling frequently. Something that had been just another unfamiliar and somewhat apprehensive task on his list had, in actuality, proven to be warmly enjoyable.

            “ _…And then they moved? Those empty pants! They kind of started jumping. And then my heart, I must admit, it kind of started thumping.”_

            Jimmy’s drooping eyelids fluttered closed, opened, and fluttered closed again.

            Chris kept reading until he finished the story before laying the book aside. Making small moves, he manipulated the sleeping child until Jimmy’s head rested on his shoulder. When he was certain his movements wouldn’t jostle him, he rose to his feet. Jimmy murmured something incomprehensible before snuggling trustingly into his arms, and remained silent all the way to his bedroom.

            A softly glowing lamp on the chest of drawers just inside the door cast the room in soft shadows but gave enough light to see the freshly-made bed turned down invitingly. Chris settled the sleeping child onto the sheets, his blonde head barely denting the pillow, and pulled the covers up to his chin. He stood silently by the bedside, waiting to be sure Jimmy wouldn’t stir.

            After several minutes, he stepped quietly to the door, stopping to turn the lamp off. Immediately, patches of light began to illuminate the bedroom ceiling and walls. Chris blinked, and as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, realized the patches were familiar star constellations as seen from Earth. Ursa Major and Ursa Minor. Orion. Gemini. Perseus. And interspersed among the constellations were shooting stars, the comets trailing tails of sparkling lights, like beckoning fingers enticing you to come and dance, ever deeper, among the stars.

            Chris swallowed hard, the Kirk family history suddenly too real. Jimmy had been born in space. Had Winona decorated his ceiling and walls to remind him of his birthplace? Or were the star designs Jimmy’s request? What was it like to put her son to bed each night under the stars knowing that space had taken her husband’s life? Either way, it spoke volumes about Winona Kirk’s courage – or her self-inflicted isolation and widowed martyrdom. Or both.

            Shaking his head, Chris retreated, quietly closing Jimmy’s bedroom door.

            Winona’s room was still dark and silent as he passed it. He debated stopping to check on her again, before deciding she wouldn’t welcome another intrusion into her personal space. No, it was likely best that he simply go back to his chair and the fire, where he could finish his drink before turning in.

            The fire had burned down to low flames and glowing embers. Chris resettled into the chair and picked up his drink. Taking a sip of the excellent whiskey, he let the fatigue the day had brought wash over him.

            The biggest surprise had been Jimmy. He had proved to be an amazingly entertaining companion.

            He hadn’t left Chris’s side after showing him the utility room. Jimmy had pointed out the toolbox, the shelf holding extra parts and components, the heat exchanger for the water system, and offered countless “Mommy says” bits of advice as part of his constant chatter. Which had proven useful when Jimmy reported “Mommy says the county needs to replace the power feeds to the house ‘cause they flux’mate when it’s really windy.” Chris had checked the cycling-balance couplet and, sure enough, it was offline. Resetting it had been an easy task, and a short time later, hot water was available again.

            Once the utility room had been set to rights, he and Jimmy had programmed the bots to begin cleaning, starting with the kitchen. He had carefully instructed the bots to skip Winona’s room for now, and with Jimmy firmly attached to his hand, they had gone back upstairs to investigate whether there was a guest room, and if there was, whether it was ready for occupants.

            At the far end of the hall, beyond the boys’ rooms, were several closed doors. Putting a finger on his pursed lips to signal ‘quiet’, he had begun a systematic search.

            Main bathroom. Linen closet. A small room containing a large, top of the line, dual fresher unit for laundry, with a line of hampers in a neat row beneath a counter on the opposite wall.

            Laundry was now at the top of the ‘to-do’ list.

            Chris pulled out a hamper and began sorting.

            “Mister Chris?” Jimmy whispered dramatically, clearly trying to keep his voice down. “Are you making piles for us to jump in?”

            “Good guess, yeoman, but no.” Now with several distinct piles at his feet, Chris pushed the empty hamper back in place and pulled out another. “I’m sorting laundry.”

            “Oh,” said Jimmy, perking up from his obvious disappointment that there was no jumping planned, “I like sorting. How many diff’rent sorts are you doing?”

            Chris looked up from his task. “Do you mean how many piles will we have when I’m done?”

            Jimmy shook his head patiently. “No, Mister Chris.” He stared at the various piles Chris had created, with a perplexed expression. “It’s not a two sort. Like shirts and not-shirts. It’s _kinda_ like a three sort ‘cause you have all the colors in two piles and all the white things in another. But it’s not a three sort ‘cause you have the colors all mixed up, plus more dirty clothes.” He sighed. “Will you explain it to me? I like learning new things.”

            “Ahh,” Chris said, as understanding dawned. “I guess I have a six sort. I chose dark colors, light colors, whites, towels, sheets and special attention items.”

            Jimmy wiggled happily. “I understand!” He laughed, clearly pleased that the process now made sense to him. “Can we play the sorting game later? I have a big box of marbles that Mommy and I use when we play. When we played last time, I fooled Mommy.” A bright grin lit up his face. “We were doing two sorts an’ she couldn’t figure out my criteria. Maybe I can fool you, too?”

            _No doubt._

            Finishing the last hamper, Chris slid it back in its place and picked up the load of whites, dumping them into one of the machines two chutes. The lighter colored load went down the second chute. The settings on the control panel were easy to use and the cleaning cycles started up immediately.

            Satisfied, he turned his attention back to the small boy, mentally replaying his last words. “So you fooled your Mommy?”

            “I did!” Jimmy giggled in delight.

            “How did you manage to fool her?” he asked, suspecting Winona had ‘let’ Jimmy win their game.

            “I used vitreous and non-vitreous as my two sort!” Overcome with glee, Jimmy flopped down on the pile of towels, dramatically waving his arms. “When I told her my criteria, she laughed an’ said I was correct an’ gave me a kiss an’ a hug. An’ we had chocolate ice cream to cel’brate my victory!” A wistful look clouded his sunny face. “I wish Mommy’s head would get better. She plays the best games.”

            _The kid had to be a freaking genius._

            “That does sound like a good time,” Chris said, removing Jimmy from the mound of dirty towels and setting him on his feet. “Does Sam play with you, too?”

            “Sometimes. When Johnny can’t play with him. Or when Mommy makes him. But mostly I play by myself. Or with Mommy. Or Darby, when Sam is at Johnny’s house.” Jimmy brightened. “Darby lets me scratch his belly.”

            “Does he now?” Chris asked, gently closing the laundry room door and pressing onward down the hall toward the last unopened door.

            “Uh huh,” Jimmy replied. “He really likes it when I do that. Why don’t people like to have their bellies scratched, Mister Chris, like dogs do?”

            “I have no idea,” Chris said.

            “I’ll ask Mommy when she’s better. She’ll prob’ly know.”

            Reaching door number four, Chris turned the old-fashioned glass doorknob, and pushed the door wide. The interior was dim but he could see a good-sized bed neatly made up with a colorful quilt draped over the brass foot rails.

            “That’s Grandma Kirk’s bed,” Jimmy announced. “My Mommy and Daddy ‘herited it when she died. It was a long time ago, so don’t be sad.”

            Chris bit his tongue to keep from asking Jimmy if he was still sad about his father. There had been something too adult in that pronouncement, the kind of knowledge no nearly three-year-old should have about loss.

            Chris walked into the room with Jimmy close behind. Crossing the room to a marble-topped nightstand with a lamp, he turned it on. The room now more brightly lit, he saw a neat and tidy room, clearly meant to accommodate a guest.

            There was little décor, but the bed had plump pillows in crisp white cases. Turning back a corner of the matching white bedspread, he saw smooth sheets and a thick blanket. Everything looked clean and pristine, ready for use.

            “Looks like I found my bunk, yeoman,” Chris said, relieved.

            “Are you sleeping over, Mister Chris?”

            “I sure am, yeoman. Is that okay with you?”

            “Yes!” Jimmy said. “You’ll be my first sleepover friend, Mister Chris.” He began to climb the brass rails at the end of the bed, as sure-footed as a mountain goat. “Maybe you would like to sleep in my room instead of here. That way, if you get ‘fraid in the dark, I’ll be there to tell you everything is fine and that the stars are watchin’ over you.”

            Touched, Chris picked up the small boy as he was about to climb over the top rail, rescuing the pristine white bedspread from Jimmy’s dirty feet. Swinging him in a wide arc, Jimmy squealed with glee. Hastily, Chris shushed him, saying, “Let’s not wake your Mom up. She’ll skin us both.” Jimmy giggled, but complied. “I appreciate the offer, yeoman, but it’s not necessary.” He set Jimmy down carefully on the rug, making sure he was steady enough on his feet to stand unsupported.

            “Don’t you get ‘fraid, Mister Chris?” Jimmy asked, curiously.

            How was he supposed to answer that? With the truth, he supposed. A truth carefully edited for a small child.

            “Sometimes. But not of the dark, yeoman.”

            “Mommy says space is really, really dark but that the stars shine brightest there.”

            “They do,” Chris affirmed, ruffling the boy’s hair.

            Jimmy looked at him solemnly, his electric-blue eyes riveting and intense. “Someday, Mister Chris, I’m going to go back to space and see the stars. Real stars, not the pretend ones like in my room.”

            The quiet words rang in the silence of the room, raising goose bumps on Chris’s arms. Deciding that, in this house, a visit to the black was a topic best left unexplored, he attempted to redirect Jimmy’s attention.

            “It’s a little chilly in here, yeoman,” he said, rubbing his arms for emphasis. “Let’s go downstairs and see how the bots are doing, shall we?” He held out his hand and Jimmy took it, his small face still fierce with determination.

 

*         *         *

           

Re-living Jimmy’s declaration raised the hair-ruffling reaction anew and Chris shivered, despite the heat of the fire. He took another sip of his whiskey, letting its smooth burn chase away the chill, before turning his thoughts to the less disquieting memories of their activities once back on the main floor.

            The hours had whisked by. Chris had kept to a steady pace; doing the next task, and the next task, and the next, with Jimmy his loyal sidekick the entire time.

            They had moved from room to room, making way for the bots as needed.

            Chris had made a belated rescue of his duffle and the boxes, each requiring a separate trip to the car through ever-deepening snow. The wind had settled a bit – a good omen for maintaining hot water – but the snow still fell in thick, large flakes. Obviously, the snowstorm had paid no attention to the weather forecast, and showed no sign of stopping at the predicted six inches.

            The two large boxes had obscured his vision and he had had to feel his way up the drifted porch steps, praying he wouldn’t slip and break an ankle or leg.

            Once he had all of them on the front porch, he had used the broom Jimmy had retrieved from the utility room – running on the way to get it; dragging it back with stubborn persistence on his way back – to sweep the boxes and duffle clear of snow before depositing them on the rug in the hallway entrance.

            Breathing a little quickly, and blowing on his nearly numb hands, he leaned back against the closed front door, gratefully shutting out the frigid world outside.

            “What’s in those boxes, Mister Chris? Did you bring me presents?” Jimmy’s small face managed to look both hopeful and doubtful at the same time.

            “Well,” Chris said, slipping off his shoes and leaving them to dry on the rug, “that navy duffle bag is my personal gear.”

            “You mean your clothes?”

            “That’s right.”

            “Gear is a funny way to say clothes, Mister Chris. How come you call your clothes gear?”

            “In Starfleet, we call our clothes and other personal items, gear. That way we don’t have to use a lot of words, when one will do the job.”

            “Oh.” Jimmy paused, a distracted look identical to the one Chris had seen on his face at lunch reappearing. Only this time he wasn’t chewing on a sandwich.

            A happy grin suddenly lit his face. “That’s ‘fficient, too, isn’t it, Mister Chris?”

            _Christ, the kid was bright._

            He’d bet a hundred credits that most kids his age were years from being able to understand the concept of context.

            “It sure is, yeoman. It sure is. Now, should we see what’s in these boxes?”

            “Yes, yes, yes!” Jimmy began to jump up and down. “Maybe there will be something for me in there.”

            Chris imagined there hadn’t been many gifts in Jimmy’s young life. Winona Kirk was raising her sons in the boondocks of Iowa. He doubted the small commercial district of Riverside that he’d driven through earlier would still be alive if it weren’t for the Starfleet facility on the edge of town. And what little he’d seen through the blowing snow hadn’t been promising. A bar or two, a run-down diner, a small, jack-of-all-trades grocery/hardware store and a thrift store. Nothing to excite a small boy or engage his imagination.

            After retrieving a knife from the kitchen, Chris made short work of cutting through the seals on the boxes.

            Packed with an eye to using every available inch of space, the first large box had been loaded with food. Chris picked up the paper form on top and quickly scanned it.

            DEAN AND DELaney, Gourmet Foods.

            Chris sat back on his heels. Even he recognized the name of the high-end, east coast market. Starfleet had sent a box of _real_ food. It must have cost them a small fortune in credits.

            He began pulling out items and setting them aside. Jimmy fingered each one in silence, giving it a careful scrutiny. It wasn’t hard to read the disappointment on his little face.

            A large, fresh turkey. A ham. Bacon. Two baguettes. Bundles of fresh herbs. Carrots. Celery. Long, thin green beans. Potatoes, both white and sweet. Sugar. Flour. Spices. Organic milk and cream in honest-to-God glass bottles. Numerous bundles of imported cheeses and charcuterie. Artisanal crackers. Nuts of various kinds. Jams and jellies. Honey. And, at the very bottom, a good-sized bag of chocolate disks meant for baking.

            Jimmy jiggled the bag of chocolate, seeming to enjoy the soft clicking sound the disks made. “Is this candy?”

            Chris sighed, fighting his own feeling of disappointment, despite the fortune in food surrounding them on the floor. Why hadn’t they included something exciting for a young boy?

            “Not really but you can _make_ candy with it.”

            “Can I have one?”

            “It won’t be sweet,” he warned.

            “That’s okay, Mister Chris. I like hot chocolate. I bet I’ll like this kind of chocolate, too.”

            “Fair enough. First, though, let’s get these things into the kitchen and put them away. Then you can try the chocolate.” Chocolate hadn’t been on the allergy list. And Jimmy had just said he’d had hot chocolate in the past, so it should be safe. But just in case, he wanted to be closer to the epi-pen than the front hall.

            It took a surprising number of trips to the kitchen to get everything stored properly. Chris offered up a heartfelt, silent prayer of thanks that the cold weather and insulated packing had prevented spoilage, given his tardiness in getting to the boxes. If any of the items had gone bad, Admiral Josetti would have clapped him in the brig. And left him there.

            Jimmy saved the bag of chocolate for last, offering it to him when he closed the cool-freeze on the last load of items.

            “You could try one, too, Mister Chris,” he said.

            Chris winked. “Sure, yeoman. Who should go first?” he asked opening the bag.

            Jimmy took a moment to consider before answering. “Your rank is higher, Mister Chris. You should go first.”

            He nearly laughed. Jimmy’s solemn pronouncement had been liberally laced with disappointment. Apparently, the thrill of being first was a concept Jimmy had already incorporated into his young life.

            Chris selected a disk and placed it in his mouth.   A moment later, it began to melt, releasing a satin-smooth, intense, deeply rich, trickle of luscious chocolate on his tongue. _Jesus, this was better than a lot of the sex he’d had._

            “Your face looks funny, Mister Chris. Does it taste bad?”

            This time he did laugh, nearly choking on a flood of chocolate.

            “Not at all, yeoman,” he replied, after swallowing quickly. “It’s good but intense. Are you sure you want to try this?”

            Jimmy’s chin lifted. “A ‘course. My Mommy says I’m a brave boy.”

            “I’m sure you are,” Chris said gently. He held the bag open for Jimmy to make his selection. “Don’t chew it. Just let it melt on your tongue, if you can. Concentrate on the flavor.”

            Jimmy’s small hand slipped into the bag, his delicate fingers easily snagging a disk. He opened his mouth, giving Chris a quick glimpse of pearly teeth and a small pink tongue before his lips closed over the chocolate. A heartbeat later, his blue eyes began to blaze, his cheeks grew rosy and Chris could see a pulse visibly thudding in the slender column of his neck.

            Sudden fear quickened his heartbeat. “Jimmy? Are you feeling alright?”

            Jimmy swallowed convulsively.

            “Jimmy? Jesus Christ, kid, answer me, please!”

            The tip of the boy’s pink tongue crept out, and licked delicately at his lips. It felt like an eternity before he answered.

            “I’m a yeoman. Not a kid.” He swallowed again, and a look of bewildered wonder filled his face. “It tastes like magic, Mister Chris. With stars.”

            Chris’s knees went weak in relief, even as Jimmy exploded into motion.

            “Hurry up, Mister Chris,” he called over his shoulder as he ran. Nearly colliding with the doorframe didn’t slow him down at all. If anything, he ran faster. “Two more boxes need to get opened! I bet we find more surprises like the chocolate.”

            The two boxes didn’t disappoint. Initially, Jimmy seemed more excited over their contents than he had been with those in the first box, despite his euphoric experience with the chocolate, providing a running commentary as he pulled each item out and set them on the floor.

            The other large-sized box held a veritable cornucopia of indulgences: a huge tray of candied fruit (“That looks pretty, Mister Chris. It has so many colors!”), two large boxes of candy, one of toffee and one of chocolates (“We are so lucky, Mister Chris! More chocolate!”), several bags of premium coffee beans (“Mommy says coffee is nectar of the gods, Mister Chris. But she says I can’t have any until I’m big.”), a mammoth glass jar of giant, roasted pistachios (“What the heck are those things, Mister Chris?”), a bag of red licorice (“Red worms!”), three kinds of popcorn, regular, caramel and cheese (“Enough for lotsa movies, Mister Chris.”), a half dozen bottles of wine (“Too bad, Mister Chris. Sam says those don’t taste good at all.”), three bottles of liquor (“Yuck.”) and, thank the starry heavens, carry-out containers containing a complete ready-to-go dinner of spaghetti and meatballs from the top Italian restaurant in San Francisco.

            Chris looked around after stacking the dinner boxes, realizing that Jimmy had gone silent and still.

            “Are you okay, yeoman?”

            Jimmy ran a careful finger over the box of chocolates on the floor at his feet, tracing the outlines of the sweets pictured on the top of the box with a small, delicate finger. “Is all this for me and Mommy and Sam?”

            “Yes.”

            “Did you buy it for us, Mister Chris?” Wariness warred with hope in Jimmy’s blue eyes.

            “No, I didn’t, Jimmy. I just made sure it arrived safely to your house.”

            The little chin lifted. “Who gave it to us?”

            There was no sense in trying to keep the truth hidden.

            “Starfleet sent it to your family.”

            “Why? Do they feel sorry for us?”

            The newly buffed wood floor suddenly felt very insubstantial. “I imagine,” Chris said, choosing his words carefully, “they wanted you to have a good Thanksgiving.”

            “’cause my Daddy died?”

            _Jesus Christ_. The black hole of loss he had been carefully orbiting since his arrival had just made its presence felt. _Man up,_ he told himself, _if the boy had the courage to ask the question, you can play straight with him._

            “Yes, that’s some of the reason. We all feel bad that your Daddy died, Jimmy. But I also think Starfleet is just doing what they know your Daddy would have done for all of you if he were still alive.”

            Serious blue eyes considered his words. “Mommy might not like it. Mommy says Starfleet is full of idiots and bastards. Are you one of those, Mister Chris?“ A slightly anxious expression flitted across his small face. “I hope not, ‘cause those are bad things to be.”

            _Out of the mouths of babes…._

            “I’d like to think I’m not either of those things. I work hard to be a good officer, Jimmy. Your Daddy was a very good officer and, someday, I hope to be as good a man as he was.” Chris sighed over Jimmy’s solemn little face. “But there’s one thing I’m sure of. He would have been proud of you, Jimmy. Very proud.” He nudged the candy box aside and gathered the boy up and gave him a gentle hug. “And if your Mom is mad about all the things Starfleet sent, I’ll tell her to be mad at me, not you, and that it would be silly to waste all this wonderful food. Okay?”

            “Promise?”

            “You have my word as an officer.” He gave Jimmy another hug. “Now, we still have a final box to open, yeoman. Let’s get this stuff put away and clear the decks, shall we?”

            Once more, they busied themselves with carrying everything but the liquor and wine bottles to the kitchen, leaving most of it stacked neatly on one of the gleaming counters.

            “Do you think the last box is more food, Mister Chris? I hope it’s something fun. We have enough food now.”

            “There’s only one way to know, yeoman. Let’s go find out. Then I’ll make dinner for us.”

            “Okay. What are you cooking, Mister Chris?”

            “Spaghetti and meatballs. With salad and Italian bread.”

            Jimmy clapped his hands in delight. “I love s’ghetti, Mister Chris. It’s my favorite ‘cept for hamburgers and French Fries. And pizza.”

            Chris laughed. “That’s a lot of favorites, yeoman. I was sure you were going to say chocolate was your favorite,” he said teasingly.

            “I forgotted about chocolate. It’s my favorite, too.”

            “Understandable. There’s always room for chocolate on the favorites list. Now how about we open that last box?”

            In a response that he was beginning to see as characteristic, Jim ran ahead.

            Back in the front hall, Chris stacked one of the now empty large boxes inside the other, moving them aside to free up space. That left the wine and liquor bottles standing alone on the rug, looking like the vulnerable targets in some strange bowling game.

            Chris sighed. “Sorry, Jimmy, but I need you to give me a minute to put these away in the kitchen. I don’t want to accidently knock one over and break it.”

            Jimmy shook his head vigorously. “No, Mister Chris. Not the kitchen. Mommy puts stuff like that in the big cabinet in the living room.” He scrambled to his feet, nearly toppling one of the wine bottles. “I’ll show you.”

            Picking up two of the bottles – including the one that had nearly lost its life to a small foot – Chris followed his pint-sized guide.

            Jimmy made a beeline for the large walnut cabinet anchoring the far corner of the now immaculate living room. “In here, Mister Chris,” he said, swinging the door open to reveal the interior, a capacious and cleverly designed bar.

            Upper shelves held sparkling crystal glasses and wine goblets. The lower portion was a wine rack, Chris noted, and thankfully, nearly empty. He bent and slid the two bottles in his hands into empty slots, before straightening and taking a closer look. The middle area had a panel that, once unfastened and lowered, turned into a work surface, complete with an inlay of marble. With the panel down, several liquor bottles were revealed, along with an array of bar tools, at the back.

            It had to be an antique. Chris had never seen anything like it before.

            “Pretty amazing, yeoman. I’d call this a treasure chest for adults.”

            Jimmy cocked his head. “Really, Mister Chris?” He was clearly puzzled. “Why?”

            “Because, in its way, it’s a work of art. It’s beautiful and functional, and it holds things adults treasure and like to drink. But, when the door is closed, no one would ever know what’s inside by looking at it. Just like a treasure chest hides what’s inside until you open it.”

            “Okay, Mister Chris.”

            He smiled at Jimmy’s doubtful expression. He was clearly being humored.

            “Give me two more minutes, Jimmy, to put the other bottles away and we’ll open that last box. I appreciate how patient you’re being.”

            He made short work of the wine, gently refusing Jimmy’s offer to help. That left the three bottles of hard liquor. Focused on making the delay as short as possible for Jimmy, he quickly stowed two of the bottles and went back for the third, and last, bottle.

            Chris was about to set the bottle in place, when he caught sight of its label.

            _Bowmore Highland Scotch._

_This single bottle cost more than a month of his salary as a Starfleet officer._

            The realization had him whistling out loud. Starfleet had pulled out all the stops in their attempt to smooth the path back into Winona Kirk’s good graces.

            “You can whistle, Mister Chris!”

            Chris blinked, Jimmy’s excited comment pulling him out of his thoughts and back to the present.

            “I sure can, yeoman. My Dad taught me when I was a little younger than your brother.”

            “Do it, again, Mister Chris! I want to watch!”

            “Okay, yeoman, but just once and I’ll have to do it softly. I don’t want to wake your Mom up.”

            Chris pursued his lips and whistled, conscious of Jimmy’s intent gaze.

            “Teach me, Mister Chris!”

            “Tomorrow, yeoman.”

            “Now, Mister Chris. Please?”

            Pulling him close, he said, “I can’t right now, Jimmy. Your Mom is still sleeping and we’ll wake her up if we make too much noise. I’ll teach you tomorrow.”

            “But what if Mommy is still sleeping tomorrow?” Tears, like small drops of dew, glittered on his lashes.   “Sometimes she sleeps for a long time.”

            Chris didn’t like the implications of that statement. Not the least being that tomorrow was Thanksgiving Day. Repairing the replicator had been beyond his skills. And he’d never made an entire Thanksgiving dinner on his own, from scratch, especially while keeping an eye on an active child.

            “Then we’ll go outside. You can practice calling Darby after you learn how.”

            A gleam of anticipation lightened Jimmy’s crushed expression, chasing away the budding tears.

            “I can show Sam when he gets home. Promise, Mister Chris?”

            “I promise, Jimmy.” He gave the boy a gentle squeeze before rising. “Now let’s go take care of that last box. I’m getting hungry for dinner.”

            “Me, too,” Jimmy said. His sunny disposition restored, he raced back to the front hall.

            Chris followed at a more measured pace, acutely aware of the need to move as quietly as possible, with Winona still sleeping above them. By the time he got back to the front hall, Jimmy was seated next to the small box, fidgeting in excitement. Chris could almost feel the energy signature radiating from the small boy.

            Chris flipped the knife in anticipation, catching it neatly again by its handle, aware too late of Jimmy’s wide-eyed gaze. “Let’s get this open, shall we? And yeoman?”

            “Yes, Mr. Chris?”

            “Don’t you try doing that with a knife. It’s dangerous for little boys.”

            “Even for Sam?”

            “Even for Sam,” he confirmed.

            “Did your Dad teach you?”

            “No. I learned it at Starfleet. In the Academy.”

            “Is the ‘cad’a’me like school?”

            Chris nodded. “That’s right. School for grown-ups who want to fly in starships.”

            He would swear he could see the wheels turning behind Jimmy’s bright-eyed gaze. “Okay, Mr. Chris,” he said. “I won’t play with a knife. Until I’m all grow’d up.” He wriggled excitedly, a stark contrast to his serious words. “Now, let’s get it open! I want to see what’s inside!”

            Chris smiled at the enthusiastic request. “At least we won’t have a lot to put away, yeoman. This box is pretty compact.”

            “What does that word mean, Mister Chris?”

            “It’s another way of saying small. But it has other meanings, too, depending on how it’s used.”

            “Why don’t words have just one meaning, Mister Chris? Did we run out of new words?”

            Chris blinked, momentarily disconcerted. “That’s a good question, Jimmy. I’m not really sure, to be honest. A communications officer who specialized in linguistics would probably know.”

            “Do you know someone like that?”

            Chris nodded, as he carefully slit the seals on the box. “I sure do. And I’ll ask the first one I see, okay?”

            “Okay,” Jimmy agreed, happily.

            Chris unfolded the flaps on the box, revealing the interior’s contents. He pursed his lips before stifling another reflexive whistle of impressed surprise. Two neatly folded, child-size sets of workout clothing, one clearly larger than the other, fashioned to look like ‘fleet crew uniforms. He didn’t know whether to be relieved or worried that they were both in Science blue. And beneath the clothing, two, top-of-the-line PADDs, one engraved with Jimmy’s initials, the other with Sam’s. And engraved beneath the initials, the insignia of Starfleet.

            _Jesus, was Command_ trying _to get him killed?_

            Did they really think that Winona Kirk was going to allow her sons to wear these miniature uniforms? Use equipment with highly visible reminders of the organization her husband had died protecting? They might as well have painted a bulls-eye on his chest and placed a charged phaser in her hands.

            Ignoring the clothing, Jimmy scrambled for the PADD engraved with the boldly etched “JTK”. “That’s my ‘nitials, Mister Chris! Is that PADD for me?”

            Chris’s stomach felt hollow. “It is. But we’re going to have to run it by your Mom before I can give it to you.”

            “Mommy won’t mind, Mister Chris,” Jimmy said earnestly, his wondering blue eyes brightly pleading. “I won’t have to borrow Mommy’s PADD anymore.”

            Chris firmed his jaw. “No can do, yeoman. We’ll have to wait and ask her once she’s feeling better.”

            Jimmy heaved a deep sigh and gave the PADD a last, lingering touch with one finger. “No one ever gave me a present before, Mister Chris, ‘cept for my Mommy.”

            _Could he feel worse than he did at this moment? Damn Starfleet for creating this situation._

            “I understand you’re disappointed, yeoman,” Chris acknowledged, stroking the boy’s head. “But nothing’s been decided yet. The smart move for both of us is to use the time before the Commander is back on her feet to study the situation and come up with our most persuasive argument. Leadership is as much about knowledge of your opponent and diplomacy as it is about action. Never let an unfavorable situation cause you to lose hope.”

            Jimmy stared at him solemnly, his gaze fathomless.

            _Christ, he was an idiot. Jimmy was just a little boy, not one of his crew._

            “What do you say we go get some dinner?” he asked, hoping that redirection would work better than spouting concepts that were too complex for a young child to understand.

            “Okay, Mister Chris,” Jimmy said quietly. “Eating sa’ghetti will be fun, too.”

            The boy’s words were acquiescent but missing their usual emotional exuberance, Chris noted, his own heart heavy. He wanted to rekindle the innocent happiness that normally burned so brightly in the boy.

            “You know, just yesterday, I thought I’d be celebrating Thanksgiving by myself.”

            “Why, Mr. Chris? Don’t you have a fam’ly?”

            Chris smiled at the concern in Jimmy’s voice. “I do. My Mom and Dad, and my two sisters and their families, will all be getting together for the holiday in Santa Fe.”

            “How come you didn’t go there?”

            _Careful, Pike. Let’s maneuver around that black hole this time._

            “Let me back up a bit with my explanation, so you’ll understand.” He was pleased to see a glimmer of curiosity. “I’m on leave right now. I got promoted and Starfleet has a new ship assignment for me. My new tour of duty starts in a couple of weeks.”

            “Will you be a captain now?”

            Chris laughed. “No, not a captain. Not yet. But I’ll be a full Commander. And I’ll tell you a secret.” He leaned in and said in a mock whisper, “Sitting in the captain’s chair is the best feeling in the world. There’s nothing like it. Remember how you felt while eating that chocolate?”

            Jimmy nodded.

            “Being captain of a ship is like that – only a hundred times better.”

            “Really?” Jimmy asked in wide-eyed wonder.

            “Really,” Chris confirmed, straightening. “So, you wanted to know why I didn’t go to my family for Thanksgiving? The honest answer: I wanted some time alone.”

            Jimmy looked at him, his face troubled. “Why, Mr. Chris? Don’t you like your fam’ly?”

            Chris smiled. “Don’t worry, Jimmy. I love my family. But they’re a large, rowdy – that means active and noisy, by the way – bunch and they just love to celebrate the holiday, any holiday, together. And they invite friends. Their philosophy is the more people at the celebration, the better the celebration will be.”

            “That sounds like a bunch of fun, Mr. Chris,” Jimmy said wistfully.

            “It can be. But I just finished a year and a half tour on a small ship. There’s no such thing as real privacy on a Starfleet ship, unless you’re the captain. I shared a room with three other men. And it was a pretty small room, Jimmy.”

            “Like my room? Sam says my room is the smallest ‘cause I was born’ed last.”

            “From my perspective, your room is plenty big.” He ruffled Jimmy’s hair. “It’s easily three times the size of my room on the ship.”

            Jimmy looked at him narrowly. “Are you a’zagerating, Mr. Chris?”

            “Not even a little.” And when Jimmy still looked dubious, Chris said solemnly, “Cross my heart and hope –“

            Jimmy spoke frantically, cutting off his oath. “That’s okay, Mr. Chris, I believe you!”

            _He was an idiot. A complete and utter idiot._

            He cleared his throat, embarrassed by his near faux pas. “So I was planning on spending a few days at my cabin in the Mojave desert just soaking in the peace and quiet on my own, with only the wind and sun and stars for company.”

            “That sounds lonely. You wouldn’t have anyone to talk to.”

            “That was the point, Jimmy. After being with people all the time on the ship, I needed some time to just be me. I could eat when I wanted. Take a siesta in the middle of the day. Stay up late. Play loud music. I could do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, and no one would be around to be offended or hurt or annoyed by my choices. It’s the kind of freedom that doesn’t exist on a starship.”

            Jimmy was quiet for a long moment. “Are you sad that you are at my house instead of your cabin?”

            “On the shuttle flight here, I was,” Chris said, wanting to be honest with the boy. “But not since I met you, Jimmy. I’m glad to be here. You are the best yeoman I’ve ever had.” Which was technically true, since he’d not been of a high enough rank to have a yeoman assigned to him. “I was planning on going to see my family when I got tired of my own company, which I’ll still do when I leave here.” He smiled. “And instead of spending Thanksgiving Day hiking in the sand and rocks, and sweating like a Zanorbian pack beast, I’ll be knee deep in snow with you and your Mom. Three sounds perfect for a Thanksgiving celebration.”

            “Will you still get to go to your cabin?”

            “I sure will. I’ll just go there last, instead of first.” He laughed. “That’s probably a better plan anyway. By the time I’m ready for some human conversation, it will be time for me to head to my new ship assignment. It’ll make me appreciate having people around me, again, all the more.”

            Jimmy nodded, apparently approving the logic of his revised plans. “I understand, Mr. Chris. Are you happy about the new ship?”

            “I am, yeoman. Now come with me. I’ll tell you all about the ship and my duties while we make dinner.”

            They’d had had quite a lively conversation. Jimmy had been interested in everything about the ship, peppering Chris with endless questions on everything from the command center (“Will the captain’s chair be the same as the one on your old ship?) to the mess hall (“I hope they have some good stuff programmed for you to eat, Mr. Chris. My mommy could send you some copies of our food programs if you need them. My Daddy wrote a lot of good ones.) to the engineering department. (My mommy really, really likes starship engines. She’s teaching me all about them, instead of Sam, ‘cause he only likes plants.”) And he had been openly delighted to hear that Chris would only have one roommate on the new ship.

            It was a good thing that pulling the meal together consisted mostly of opening containers and following the simple directions for reheating, as his mind was mostly on answering Jimmy’s questions in ways he could easily understand. In a matter of minutes, Chris had the salad, bread and pasta ready, filling the large kitchen with the delicious aromas garlic and tomatoes.

            Jimmy grinned when he set a steaming plate of pasta in front of him.

            “It smells wonderful, Mr. Chris.”

            “Yeah, you can’t beat Giannetti’s for Italian food.” Chris glanced at the cookie jar with its hidden epi-hypospray. “Does you Mom let you eat food made by restaurants?”

            “You mean like the diner?”

            Chris cringed at the thought of comparing Giannetti’s, with their two Michelin star rating, to the rundown diner he had passed in town. “Exactly, yeoman. Have you ever eaten spaghetti at the diner?

            “Uh-uh,” Jimmy said, shaking his head. “Mommy says their food is terrible.”

            “I have to admit I’m a little nervous letting you eat this food, yeoman. I don’t know exactly what’s in it. Maybe you should take a little taste, so we can see what happens, before you chow down.”

            “Okay.” Jimmy sighed in resignation. “I know what to do, Mr. Chris. When I try new foods, I’m supposed to eat just a tiny bite, then wait to see if anything bad happens.” He suited his words to actions, taking a quick lick of sauce before Chris could intervene. “But I think it will okay. I haven’t had any new allergies in a long time.”

            Chris didn’t bother asking what a long time meant. To Jimmy, that could be anything from an hour to months. “Are you feeling anything?”

            “My tummy is hungry. But my lungs are breathing fine. And my throat isn’t making any funny tickles.”

            “That’s great.” He couldn’t relax yet, though.

            “I know, ‘cause the sa’ghetti tastes really, really good. My mommy would like it. And Sam.”

            “Does Sam have any allergies?”

            “No,” Jimmy said, despondently, “just me. The doctors think it’s ‘cause I was born’ed too soon. When I’m three, Mommy says the doctors will test me. For everything. That means lots of injections. And I don’t like injections. But Mommy says I have to be brave ‘cause once the doctors have a complete list of my allergies, they can start the treatments that will make them go away.” He brightened. “Then I can eat anything. And I won’t ever have to see the doctor again!”

            “That sounds like a great plan, yeoman. If your Mom says it’s okay, I’ll message you from time to time to see how the process is going and how you’re holding up.”

            “From your ship?”

            “Yes.”

            Jimmy kicked his feet happily. “And I’ll message you back. On my new Starfleet PADD.”

            _Did the kid ever forget anything?_

            “Only if you Mom agrees,” Chris felt compelled to remind the boy.

            “I’ll do fine, Mr. Chris,” Jimmy said, picking up his fork, and Chris had no idea if he meant the equipment and messaging or the food. With Jimmy, it was likely both.

            The boy shoveled in a large mouthful, sucking in stray noodles, and causing droplets of sauce to splatter his chin and shirt.

            “Careful there, yeoman. Slow down and take smaller bites.” Chris picked up his own fork and spoon, carefully winding a few noodles in the spoon’s bowl, while keeping a close eye on Jimmy for any late manifesting symptoms of difficulties from the food.

            “Whatcha doin’, Mr. Chris,” Jimmy asked, a few strands of pasta trailing from his mouth.

            “You shouldn’t talk with your mouth full, yeoman,” he admonished gently. “You could choke.”

            Jimmy hastily swallowed. “You sound just like Mommy, Mr. Chris.” He licked his bottom lip, removing a large drop of red sauce. “How come you’re twirling your sa’ghetti like that?”

            “It’s the polite way to eat it. Plus, it’s easier to keep the sauce from dripping on your uniform.” He smiled as Jimmy rubbed self-consciously at his already stained shirt. “No worries, there, yeoman. I’ll show you how it’s done.”

            Soon Jimmy was giggling, high spirits restored, as he attempted to eat his spaghetti “like Mr. Chris.” By the end of the meal, he was becoming surprisingly good at mastering the technique – even if, at times, it was only one strand of pasta at a time.

            He ate a surprising amount, too, for someone his size. Everything, meatballs, pasta and sauce, and a small bowl of salad, steadily diminished, then vanished all together, leaving behind a sauce-smeared plate as the only evidence.

            “I’m full, Mr. Chris,” Jimmy announced, scrubbing his face with his napkin.

            Chris laughed out loud as Jimmy’s face re-emerged. Instead of cleaning away the sauce, he had managed to smear it around his checks and chin, leaving his fair skin a vivid shade of orange. “Your face looks like the desert sky at sunset, yeoman.”

            “That sounds silly, Mr. Chris.”

            “It does, indeed, but it’s still true. I think it’s bath time for you, yeoman, after I put the kitchen to rights.”

            Jimmy joined in the effort, taking his plate and utensils to the recycler. Chris put the leftovers in the cool-freeze, loaded the recycler and wiped down the table and countertops. It took only a few minutes to put everything in its proper place. Chris replaced the sponge in the sink holder and turned around in time to catch Jimmy yawning.

            “Bath, “ he said, again, firmly, crossing the shining kitchen floor to scoop Jimmy from his chair.

            “And stories,” Jimmy reminded him.

            “Three stories, as I recall.”

            Jimmy nodded, yawning again.

            They played games in the water, having a mock naval battle in whispers with a flotilla of small boats and animals. Jimmy had names and characteristics for all of them, and clearly enjoyed the opportunity to show Chris how to successfully defeat the pirate ships. The great grey whale was his secret weapon.

            “It can go down deep and hide, Mr. Chris. But then,” Jimmy picked up a cup of clean water from the tub edge and took a sip, before blowing it out on a breath, spewing water and air, “it comes up underneath the pirate king’s ship and turns it over.” He matched action to words, vanquishing the pirate king. “The bad guys lose! The ocean is safe!” he crowed.

            Chris didn’t have the heart to shush him. Instead, he picked up the pastel bottle of bath soap decorated with smiling babies and squirted a generous amount onto Jimmy’s wet hair. “Time to clean up, yeoman. Command is going to want a detailed account of your winning strategies, and they’ll expect you to be clean and polished before presenting yourself for your debrief.”

            Jimmy dissolved into giggles but acquiesced to having his hair and skin scrubbed clean. Afterward, he pretended to be a fish, then a shark and, lastly, having finished with the animal kingdom, a waterspout. (“That’s a tornado made out of water, Mr. Chris.) By then the water was cooling and the bathroom floor was more than a little damp. “Time to get dry, yeoman. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. I don’t want you to catch a chill and be sick for the holiday.”

            He briskly toweled the boy’s pale hair to near dryness, then rubbed any remaining water from the small, sturdy body. Using the towel to dry the floor, he started the tub draining. “Brush your teeth, yeoman, and I’ll comb your hair when you’re done.” While Jimmy obediently fetched his sonic toothbrush from it’s holder and began studiously cleaning his teeth, Chris picked up the mass of bath toys stranded on the tub bottom, one by one, emptying them and then placing them in the drawstring bag hanging from a suction hook on the bathtub wall to finish drying.

            “All done,” Jimmy announced.

            “Nice work. Now, let me take care of your hair.” Chris ran the comb through the strands, leaving Jimmy’s flaxen hair sleek and shining. “Onward, yeoman, to your room for pajamas and books.”

            Jimmy erupted into motion, like a racehorse hearing the bell as the gates clanged open. Naked as the day he was born, he ran from the bathroom, giggling in high spirits. Chris grabbed Jimmy’s dirty clothes and the wet towels, tossing them into the laundry room on his way to little boy’s room. They’d make one last load, which he would take care of later, on his way to bed.

            “Do you need help finding your pajamas?” Chris asked, entering the bedroom. Jimmy, still naked, was staring out his window.

            “I can’t wear pajamas, Mr. Chris. I need my snowsuit. We forgot to feed Darby! And now it’s dark outside!”

            _Shit. He had totally forgotten about the dog._

            “I’ll take care of Darby, Jimmy. Where do you keep his food?”

            “In the old tack room, in a metal bin next to the sink.”

            “Those are good directions, yeoman. How much food does he get?”

            “Two cups. The cup is in the bin, with his food. And Sam says I have to give him fresh water every day.”

            “Consider it done. Now, pajamas for you.” After putting away all the clean laundry, he was well acquainted with where to find Jimmy’s clothing. Opening the correct drawer, he asked, “Blue or yellow?”

            “Blue.”

            “Blue, it is.” He opened the top drawer. “Clean skivvies first, though.”

            “You sure know a lot of funny words, Mr. Chris. Are skivvies my underwear?”

            “You got it in one guess, yeoman.”

            Jimmy tugged on the white briefs printed with smiling teddy bears. Then he sat down on the rug, putting the requested pajama bottoms on both feet first, before standing and pulling them into place. He pulled the top over his head, leaving the empty sleeves dangling. “Will you make sure I have it on the right way, Mr. Chris?”

            “Happy to oblige,” Chris said, and checked to be sure the top was correctly situated, front to back. “Looks good,” he said, and watched as Jimmy threaded his slender arms up and through the sleeves.

            “All done, Mr. Chris!”

            “Good job. Now let’s select the books you want me to read and we’ll go downstairs. You can wait for me in the living room while I feed Darby.”

            Feeding Darby had proven to be anything but easy. He had opened the door to the outside in the utility room only to find a four-foot drift blocking his way. Cursing under his breath, he realized that he was seriously underdressed for his ill-conceived plan to dash to the barn and back. Luckily, he had found boots and an adult snow parka hanging in the nearby closet. When they proved to be plenty big enough, he realized they must have belonged to George Kirk.

            _He was wearing a dead man’s clothes. A dead hero. And his widow was sleeping upstairs._

            There was no way out of the situation but through. Setting his jaw, he zipped the parka closed and, before he had time to reconsider, opened the door and plowed through the drift into the snowy dark. Using the barn lights as a guide, he made it safely to the entrance, sliding the door open and stepping inside. He slid his hood back, grateful to be out of the stinging wind and inside the much warmer barn.

            “Lights, 100%,” he ordered.

            A low growl began as the barn flooded with light.

            His brain shifted gears.

            He was just a stranger to the dog.

            A stranger invading his territory.

            _He was totally screwed._

            The growling stopped suddenly, replaced by whining.

            Frozen in place, Chris watched as a border collie pattered out of a partitioned area and made straight for him. The whining changed into a series of little yips and the animal’s tail was wagging madly. The dog began to dance around him, sniffing his coat hem and boots, and Chris realized, stupid with the rush of fear-laced adrenalin, that the dog must smell the scent of George Kirk on the clothing.

            He put out a gloved hand – no way was he taking Kirk’s gloves off – and gave the dog a tentative pat on the head.

            “Good boy,” he said. “Good boy. Are you hungry?”

            The dog whined, again, perhaps confused by this human who had the right scent and the wrong voice. Or conflicting scents. Dogs were supposed to have an incredible sense of smell.

            Speed was obviously the wisest choice.

            Spotting the tack room, he moved steadily toward it. The dog followed, quiet now, tail still.

            The metal bin was tightly sealed, no doubt to keep it free from vermin. Next to it, on a large rubber pad, were two large bowls, one half full of water.

            He tried to set a new speed record in refilling them.

            The dog nosed in as soon as he set the full food bowl down, crunching noisily, and he snatched the water bowl away before Darby could he think of taking a nip out of him. Thirty seconds later, he placed the clean bowl of water on the mat and pushed it into place with his boot toe.

            “Enjoy your dinner,” he bid the dog as he backed away. Darby paid him no mind, focused completely on his food.

            Relief flooded his veins as he shut the barn door behind him, despite being back in the cold. If Winona Kirk was still in bed tomorrow, he was definitely taking Jimmy with him to feed Darby. And he didn’t feel one bit sheepish hiding behind the proverbial skirts of the almost-three-year-old.

            Chris half-expected the house to be echoing with Jimmy’s presence but all was quiet as he replaced George Kirk’s gear. Walking quickly but quietly he made his way to the living room.

            Jimmy was exactly where he had left him, in the big chair to the left of the fireplace, a dark blue afghan covering his lap. He was bent over his storybook, lips moving silently as he sounded out the words on the page. The fire burned merrily, waking shining lights in the boy’s pale hair.

            _Was the kid_ reading?

            Shaking his head in wonder, Chris approached the chair.

            “Hey, I thought I was the one who was going to do the reading tonight?”

            Jimmy looked up. Faint blue shadows were visible beneath his eyes. “Did you give Darby his dinner?”

            “I sure did.”

            “You were fast, Mr. Chris.”

            _You have no idea._

            “I was anxious to read stories with you.”

            Jimmy smiled, his smile turning into a yawn. “My eyes are kinda tired, Mr. Chris.”

            “No problem, yeoman. You can just close your eyes and listen.”

            “That sounds good, Mr. Chris.”

            Chris laid the afghan aside and picked Jimmy up, while Jimmy held the book. Sitting down, he settled the boy on his lap, took the book from him and began to read.

            “…Now, the Star-Belly Sneetches

            Had bellies with stars.

            The Plain-Belly Sneetches

            Had none upon thars…”

 

*         *           *

 

            Chris awoke to the enticing aroma of bacon and coffee, in a room that was nothing like his quarters on the _Olympus_.

            Even in the dim light, the room managed to look old-fashioned and cozy. Drowsy and relaxed, he was reluctant to move, buried as he was beneath the comforting weight of the covers. He couldn’t remember the last time he had slept so soundly.

            His stomach growled, reminding him dinner had been hours ago, and the aromas making their way under the door of his room smelled wonderful.

            _Coffee and bacon…_

            Who was cooking breakfast?

            Alarmed, Chris jackknifed up in bed and threw the covers off. _Christ. Was the kid playing at chef again?_

            Grabbing his pants, he scrambled into them, hopping on first one foot, then the other, in his haste to get dressed. He had slept in his t-shirt and briefs, and had no desire to run into Commander Kirk in the hallway in his underclothes. Deciding the remainder of his clothing could wait, and that he was, at least, decently covered now, if barefooted, he hurried from the bedroom. It was _far_ more important to check on Jimmy than finish dressing.

            He covered the upstairs hallway in a not-quite run. By the time he gained the top of the stairs, he could hear voices. Relieved, he realized that Winona Kirk must be up and in custody of her son at the same time he registered that the door to her room was open.

            Through the doorway, he could see the neatly made bed and several bots at work. The drapes and shades had been opened, and the windows framed a view that revealed nothing more than it was still snowing outside.

            Moving more circumspectly, he descended the stairs, heading for the kitchen. The appetizing smells grew stronger, and he heard Jimmy’s clear, soprano voice.

            “Prob’ly faster.”

            “Yes. And what else do you think would happen?”

            Stopping in the doorway, he absorbed the sight of Jimmy and Winona Kirk sitting side by side at the kitchen table, focused on a PADD lying on the surface in front of them. Under the lights of the brightly lit kitchen, their hair gleamed like twin suns.

            Winona looked up, sensing his presence. “Good morning.”

            Her sharp blue eyes raked him from top to bottom, no doubt cataloguing every wrinkle and missing item of clothing, and Chris had to sternly repress the urge to blush.

            “Mr. Chris!” Jimmy caroled happily. “I thought you were _never_ gonna get up.”

            Chris felt a little heat build in his face. _What time was it?_

            Jimmy kicked his legs in excitement against his chair. “Mommy and I had breakfas’ already. I had pancakes! With blueberries and syrup!”

            “Quit kicking the chair, Jimmy,” Winona said calmly. Then, as if she had read Chris’s mind, “Don’t worry, it’s still early. Jimmy was up at five, and it’s barely eight now.”

            “How are you feeling, Commander? You look better.” And it was true. Her face was still pale, but her eyes were no longer heavy-lidded, with shadows beneath them, and her hair was freshly washed and pulled back in a ponytail. In her jeans, she looked about eighteen. Until, that is, she pinned you with her gaze and you saw her haunted eyes, a blue so dark you were sure it was exactly the color an artist would use to symbolize heartbreak and mourning in their paintings.

            “I’ll live. Care for some coffee?”

            “Yes, ma’am, thank you.”

            Rising, Winona walked to the cupboard to the right of the sink and took down a mug. “How do you take it?”

            “Black, ma’am. Thank you,” Chris said again.

            She sighed gustily and turned to lean against the countertop.

            “Okay, let’s address the elephant in the room. Or, more accurately, several of them. A small herd, in fact.” She crossed her arms, coffee mug dangling from her slender hand.

            Jimmy’s small fingers traced the edge of the PADD, apparently picking up on the rising tension. “Are you mad, Mommy?”

            _Good question, Jimmy_ , Chris thought and braced himself.

            Winona sighed, again. “Not with you, Jimmy,” she said. “Your friend and I are talking now, so hush and sit still.”

            She turned back to Chris, and held up a finger. “One: I am not on active duty. You have my permission to call me Winona. We are not on Starfleet property, thank God, so there’s no need for uniforms or military formality. Do you prefer Christopher or Chris, in return?”

            _So she remembered his bedside introduction._

            “Chris is fine.”

            Nodding, she extended a second finger upward, and said, “Two: are you responsible for all the items that are now residing in my home? The food and alcohol?”

            “I showed Mommy everything from the boxes, Mr. Chris. Even the choc’late.” His little face saddened. “Mommy said no chocolate for her.”

            _Was chocolate a possible migraine trigger for her?_

            “No, ma’— no.” Chris quickly covered his near mistake. “I had no idea the boxes were on the shuttle until I arrived in Riverside. They’re from Starfleet.”

            “Who, specifically? Who in Starfleet thinks I can’t feed my sons?” Her voice was as hard and frozen as the ground outside.

            Chris swallowed hard. “Truthfully, I’m not exactly sure. Admiral Josetti didn’t mention anything about them at our meeting.”

            Winona snorted, surprising him. “I’ll have to give the old fart a little more credit in the future.”

            “What’s an old fart, Mommy?”

            “An old fart is usually someone who is going bald, sits in a chair all day and thinks his rank makes him smarter than he really is.”

            “Oh,” Jimmy said, disappointed. “That sounds boring, Mommy.”

            “I agree, Jimmy,” she said, with a gleam in her eye. “I completely agree.”

            “What do you think, Chris?”

            “I think,” he said, carefully crafting his response to her, “that rank has its privileges and those boxes were definitely filled with things it would be a privilege to eat and drink. Why they made the journey with me, or whether it was wise to send them, are separate matters.” He allowed the briefest of wistful smiles to grace his lips. “And I think it would be a darn shame to waste them. That kind of decision would only deprive you, and the boys, of the pleasure of enjoying them and Starfleet Command is not going to know either way.”

            The silence seemed to last for an eternity.

            Finally, Winona cocked her head. “Are you a wine or hard liquor man?”

            “Wine is fine for meals. But for straight up drinking at the bar, or a nightcap after a long day, it’s hard to beat a glass of Scotch. Or whisky.”

            Winona smiled without humor. “So, if I keep all these luxury provisions, Starfleet will think they’ve found a way to bribe me.”

            “Or that I was particularly persuasive and managed to talk you out of dumping them in the nearest garbage can. Just this once, of course.”

            “Of course,” she agreed drily.

            “Does that mean yes, Mommy?”

            Winona nodded, and Jimmy whooped with glee.

            “Enough.” Winona rubbed her temple, and Jimmy instantly went silent.

            “Sorry, Mommy.”

            “It’s alright, baby. Just save loud voices for outside, okay?”

            Jimmy nodded, looking chastened.

            “Since I’ve already let Jimmy nag me into using some of the food items to make blueberry pancakes for him, would you like a stack for breakfast to go along with your coffee?”

            “I don’t want to trouble you. The two of you must have had breakfast hours ago.”

            Winona poured a stream of coffee from a carafe into the mug. “Oh, for the love of Pete, sit down and relax. You look like you’re about to snap to parade attention.”

            Catching sight of the interested expression on Jimmy’s face, his head cocked in perfect mimicry of hers from only minutes ago, she said, “It’s just a saying, Jimmy. Pete isn’t a real person,” before he could ask.

            Chris sat down in a vacant chair at the table, and she rewarded him by sliding the steaming mug in front of him.

            “Cream and sugar?”

            “Just black, thanks.” The first sip nearly scalded his tongue but it was worth it. “That’s…remarkable.”

            Her smile was genuine this time. “I had a similar reaction. It’s been a long time since I had real coffee.”

            The small moment of camaraderie lasted through his breakfast preparations. Jimmy, under Winona’s methodical prodding, produced a clean placemat and silverware for him to use, bombarding him with questions while he did so.

            “Do you like blueberries in your pancakes, Mr. Chris?”

            “I sure do.”

            “Me, too! I ate two pancakes. How many can you eat?”

            Winona looked over, ready to pour pancake batter on the hot griddle.

            Chris screwed up his face in exaggerated consideration. “Three big ones or four smaller ones, I think.”

            “Do you like lots of syrup, Mr. Chris? I do. Mommy says we get syrup from trees.” His eyes grew wide. “Mommy? Did I eat tree blood?”

            Chris nearly choked on his coffee but Winona took it all in stride.

            “In a way. Tree sap is a fluid, mostly made of water with some dissolved sugars and mineral salts, and it circulates in the vascular system of a plant, like blood does in our body’s vascular system.” She flipped the pancakes. “So you can definitely say you ate a tree’s blood.”

            Jimmy looked delighted. “Sam will be mad I got to eat tree blood first,” he said, and laughed triumphantly.

            Chris felt a little green.

            Winona laughed, the happy sound filling the kitchen.

            Jimmy raced over and threw his arms around her closest leg.

            “I love you, Mommy!”

            “You are bold and brave, James Tiberius Kirk,” she proclaimed, ruffling Jimmy’s pale blond hair.

            Chris stared at the beautiful woman and the equally beautiful boy, wanting to believe the happy, spontaneous moment he was witnessing was all it seemed.

            But why hadn’t she replied, “I love you, too” to her adoring son?

           

*         *           *

 

            It had been no hardship to clear his plate.

            Now, sipping slowly on a second cup of the coffee, he closed his eyes in appreciation as the rich, bitter-edged brew flooded his taste buds. Heaven in a cup.

            “I assume you’re planning on staying for Thanksgiving dinner?”

            Winona Kirk’s crisp question broke the silence that had fallen in the kitchen. Chris’s gaze flicked first to the kitchen window, taking in the snow that was still falling, then to Jimmy, who was busy making a colorful Native American headband to wear at dinner.

            “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble. I’m pretty sure my car wouldn’t make it back to town, if I tried to leave. I had to drive here in default mode, yesterday. The hover system kept kicking out due to the blowing snow.”

            Winona snorted. “The motor pool in Riverside needed to be replaced years ago. It’s a miracle you didn’t end up in a ditch.”

            “It was touch and go a few times,” he agreed. “Even your driveway was a challenge.”

            A feral smile lit her face. “I keep it that way to discourage visitors.”

            “You must have a hefty budget for vehicle repairs.”

            “Oh, I don’t use it. There’s a back drive to the barn and garage that’s in much better shape. The entrance is a few hundred feet past the house. And it’s unmarked. Strangers tend to rely on their nav systems, which brings them up the front drive.”

            Chris took a deliberate sip of his coffee. “Would have been good to know,” he said mildly.

            Winona laughed, a bright, happy sound. Jimmy looked up immediately, crayon suspended in mid-air.

            “What’s so funny, Mommy?”

            “I just confirmed that Mr. Chris has a droll sense of humor and, even better, he appreciates a good practical joke.”

            “What’s droll, Mommy?”

            “It means clever or dry or whimsical. You can look it up later on your PADD.”

            “You mean my new one?” he asked, hopefully, his blue eyes guileless.

            Chris held his breath.

            Winona sighed. She took a deliberate sip of her coffee, and swallowed. “I suppose it’s time you had your own device.”

            Jimmy must have sensed her reluctance, for he remained silent, his gaze on her. Chris realized he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

            “Same restrictions as for Sam. One, no sites that have an adult warning, without my permission. Two, your chores come first. And three, four hours max in a day using it. You’re a kid; you should be playing and having fun.”

            “Okay, Mommy. That’s fair.”

            “If I discover you’ve broken any of my rules, you lose the PADD for a week.”

            Jimmy sighed, his little shoulders drooping. “Okay, Mommy,” he said, again, dutifully, and resumed his coloring, all his anticipation and excitement vanquished by her stern manner.

            The sound of a rumbling motor broke the uncomfortable silence that had fallen.

            Jimmy brightened immediately.

            “I bet that’s Mr. Lincoln,” he announced, hopping down from his chair and rushing to the window.

            “Calm down, Jimmy. He’s just here to plow, as usual.”

            “Nuh-uh, Mommy. He’s getting out of his truck. And he gots two baskets with him.”

            “He’s got,” Winona corrected automatically, heading for the back door in the utility room at the sound of boots on the wooden porch. Chris heard her open it and say, with surprising warmth in her voice, “Come in out of the weather, Abe.”

            A deep, gruff voice said, “Take these and I’ll get my boots off. Don’t want to track snow all over your clean floors.”

            Curious, he craned his neck from where he was sitting in order to see who was being welcomed so warmly.

            Winona reentered the kitchen, carrying two baskets, trailed by bear of a man in a dark brown parka and pants, the shoulders of the parka wet with melting snow. His bright red ski cap and socks added an unexpected touch of color to his drab clothing. His face still bore traces of a summer tan and he had dark eyes set under bushy gray brows.

            “Happy Thanksgiving, Win. Mary sent over two pies, a dozen of her yeast rolls and some of her cranberry relish.” He set the baskets on the counter. “If you empty these, I’ll take ‘em back with me and get ‘em out of your way.”

            “Happy Thanksgiving to both of you, as well. Please thank Mary for me, Abe,” she said, over her shoulder, as she removed the items from the basket and set them aside. “It was kind of her to think of us. And of you, to bring them over in this weather.”

            Abe shifted awkwardly, casting a quick, assessing glance Chris’s way. “Well, she knew you’d been feeling poorly, this week, and figured you could use a little something to cheer you up, it being the holiday and all.” He grinned, suddenly looking more like a big teddy bear than a dour grizzly. “And truth to tell, I couldn’t hear myself think with all them women in the house chattering about this and that, and the grandkids running around shrieking like someone’s about to take an ax to them.”

            Winona laughed. “Do you have time for a cup of coffee, Abe? It’s the real thing.”

            “Real coffee? I might be old but I’m not a fool.”

            Winona laughed, again, and waited for him to shed his coat, before waving her hand at the kitchen table. “Sit down and I’ll get you a cup. Cream?”

            “Yes, ma’am, if it’s no trouble.”

            “No trouble at all.” Instead of reciting the list of Jimmy’s allergies, Winona pressed an icon on the screen, bringing up a number pad, and punched in a four digit code. The lock light turned green. She removed the cream container from the refrigerator, poured a liberal amount into the coffee mug, and filled the remainder of the mug with steaming coffee.

            “Here you go. And I want to apologize for not introducing my houseguest sooner. Abe, this is Lieutenant Commander Christopher Pike. He’s keeping Jimmy and me company for Thanksgiving. Chris, this is my dear friend and neighbor, Abraham Lincoln.”

            The older man offered a hand and Chris took it, giving it a firm shake, noticing that the skin and nails were clean even though the joints were showing signs of arthritis and the palms and backsides of his fingers were hard and calloused.

            “Call me Abe, son.” He shook his head. “Fool parents named me after their favorite president.”

            “It’s a good name,” Chris said. “And, please, call me Chris.”

            “You and Win serve together?”

            “No, sir. I’m just here – “

            Winona interrupted. “Chris is here because Starfleet was sure I was channeling Ebenezer Scrooge, and Sam and Jimmy were going to eat stale crackers for Thanksgiving.”

            Abe frowned, his brows nearly touching. “Sneaky old buzzards. I figured something must be up when I saw the car in the front drive. Glad it wasn’t them paparazzi folks, because now I won’t have to tow them back to town, in order to get ‘em out of your hair.” He shook his head. “Them admirals never learn. They always underestimate your willpower, Win.”

 

            “I know. But they’re just going to have to wait. It’s not my problem that they want to have their cake and to eat it, too.”

            “What kind of cake?”

            Jimmy’s piping voice startled the three of them. Abe recovered first, chuckling.

            “Come here, boy, and give my old, cold neck a hug to warm it up. We’re just talking adult nonsense, so it’s no wonder you’re a bit confused.”

            Jimmy happily bounded over and gave the man an enthusiastic hug.

            “That’s what I like. A good, strong, manly hug. You’re a fine one, Jimmy. So fine that Miss Mary decreed you were to have two pies for your holiday dinner.”

            Jimmy’s grew round. “Two pies all for me?”

            Chris watched as Abe poked Jimmy’s tummy assessingly with a gentle finger. “Seems to me as if a slice or two will easily fit. But I’m sure a fine boy like you will be happy to share his pies with his mother and his guest, too. Am I right?”

            “A’course, Mr. Abe. Mommy says it’s polite to share.”

            Abe laughed. “Your mother is a smart woman.”

            “I know,” Jimmy said, solemnly. “Someday I’m going to be as smart as she is.”

            Abe picked up his coffee mug and, holding it up in the air, said, “A toast. To Jimmy! May his brain grow and thrive until it is fearsome, and all are in wonder and awe!” He took a large swallow of coffee before offering the mug to Jimmy. “Take a sip to seal the deal. It’ll put hair on your chest.”

            Chris smiled, watching Jimmy react to Abe’s blarney.

            Jimmy took a tentative swallow of coffee, licking a stray drop from his bottom lip. “Coffee is good, “ he said, slipping from Abe’s lap. “But cocoa is better. Next time we haf’ta toast, Mr. Abe, let’s use cocoa. Mr. Chris brought us some choc’late. It’s the best!”

            Abe smiled at the boy. “Chocolate, eh? That sounds like a good idea, Jimmy. If you go out and play in the snow today, I bet there will be some hot chocolate in your future. Now, I’d best be gathering up the baskets and getting back to my chores. There’s a lot of snow out there to be moved, and I don’t want to be late for Miss Mary’s dinner.”

            After Abe left to go back to his snow removal chores, accompanied by good-byes and wishes for a happy Thanksgiving, the kitchen seemed almost too quiet. Chris drank the last of his coffee while Jimmy colored a final feather for his headband. Winona seemed lost in thought, as she stared pensively over their heads. Chris wondered if she was remembering other Thanksgiving celebrations, ones that included George Kirk? He searched desperately for something – anything – to say before the silence became even more melancholy.

            Fortunately, Jimmy came to the rescue.

            “I’m all done, Mommy. Can I go outside and play?”

            Winona blinked, then straightened. “I need to do some prep work on dinner first.”

            _Bright, white snow. Wind and cold. It didn’t sound like an ideal environment for someone who was still getting over a bad migraine._

            “I can go out with him,” Chris volunteered, quickly.

            Relief erased the remaining tension in Winona’s face. “That would be very helpful, Chris.”

            “Can we build a snowman, Mr. Chris? An’ a fort? An’ throw snowballs?” Jimmy asked, bouncing on his feet.

            Chris laughed. “Anything you want, kiddo.”

            “Yay!” The bouncing intensified. “Will you help me get dressed, Mommy?”

            “Of course. If you can stand still long enough.”

            “I will. I promise.”

            Winona pursed her lips. “Well, if you promise….”

            “I do. I do.”

            “That’s my boy. Now, you go use the bathroom and then we’ll get you dressed.”

            “Okay, Mommy,” Jimmy said, and made a beeline for the powder room.

            Chris stood up. Walking his empty mug to the sink, he said, “I’d better go use the facilities and get dressed, too.”

            Winona turned her attention to him. “Did you bring outdoor gear with you?”

            “Not really,” he hedged. “But I’m sure I can cobble something together.”

            “You’ll freeze before you’re barely out the door without proper clothing. Hang on.” She disappeared into the utility room. Chris heard her open the closet door, followed by the rustle of clothing. In less than a minute, she was back with an armful of clothing.

            “These should fit well enough for play purposes.” She held out snow-pants, the parka he had worn last night, insulated gloves and a thickly knitted hat. “I left the boots by the back door. Hopefully, they won’t be too big for you. Mine would be too small, I’m sure.”

            Not once did she mention her husband by name. “Thank you,” Chris said, taking the gear from her. “I’ll go up and get dressed.” Leaving the kitchen, he took a deep breath and headed for the stairs.

            _There was no way he was going to properly fill George Kirk’s shoes. Even for a day._

            And his heart ached for both the woman and the boy.

           

*         *           *

 

            Maybe the snow fort had gotten a little out of hand, Chris admitted silently to himself.

            What had started as a plan for a wall to shelter behind had morphed into a rectangle shaped structure made of snow blocks, courtesy of an old plastic bin Jimmy had salvaged from the barn. Abe, on his tractor, had happily pushed a pile of snow their way, before finishing up and leaving.

            He and Jimmy had made block after block, building walls made of snow ‘bricks’ and plastering them into place with more snow. In a surprisingly short amount of time, they had a nearly three feet tall rectangle finished.

            Chris had carefully made an opening in one of the short sides, and he and Jimmy had tamped down the snow inside the walls. For a man more used to the desert than the Midwest in winter, it had turned out pretty well.

            Once they had finished making the fort ‘floor’ as flat as possible, he had stepped carefully over a wall and backed up several feet, in order to get a proper perspective on their creation. The corners sported flags of red, blue, green and yellow, created out of few of the flags on a mice-chewed length of party bunting, which he and Jimmy had unearthed in the barn and nailed onto thin, wooden stakes. He had planted makeshift flagpoles deep enough into the corners of the walls to ensure they were secure, and now the wind caused the flags to flutter and snap.

            Jimmy, of course, was delighted.

            “It’s like a castle, Mr. Chris. Just my size.” He dropped to his hands and knees, and crawled inside. He had been a bundle of inexhaustible energy since leaving the house, and he didn’t show any signs of slowing down even now, after hours in the cold and snow.

            “Is that better than a fort?” Chris asked teasingly.

            “Way better. It’s a fort _and_ a castle.”

            “I’m glad you like it. Should we make a snowman next? Or maybe a snow soldier to guard the castle?”

            Jimmy’s head peeked over the top of a wall. Mischief gleamed in his burning blue eyes. A moment later, a snowball came whizzing over the wall, hitting Chris in the chest, followed by giggles of delight.

            “You can’t hit me, Mr. Chris. I’m safe behind the walls in my castle.”

            “Is that so? Hmmm…what if I do this?” He scooped up snow and packed it into a ball, then lobbed it over the wall between himself and Jimmy. “Incoming!” he shouted in warning.

            “Missed me!’

            Several dozen similar attempts later – with mutual exchanges of snowball volleys – Jimmy’s happy pronouncements of Chris’s failure to hit him segued into song. His high, piping voice was surprisingly on key, the melody clear and bright.

            “All around the mulberry bush,  
            The monkey chased the weasel.  
            The monkey thought 'twas all in fun,  
            Pop! Goes the weasel.  
            A penny for a spool of thread,  
            A penny for a needle.  
            That's the way the money goes,  
            Pop! Goes the weasel”

On the words “Pop”, Jimmy’s head popped up from behind one of the fort’s walls and he threw a snowball at Chris, usually missing by a mile, but grinning like a madman all the same, clearly thrilled with his new game.

            On the third iteration of the song, Chris growled in mock-anger and charged the fort.

            “Are you calling me a monkey, you weasel?” he roared, leaning over the wall.

            Jimmy screamed in fake fright and fell down in a fit of giggles.

            Chris leaned over the little boy, drinking in the happy sounds. Jimmy’s cheeks were rosy from the cold and his eyes snapped blue fire in the sea of white snow.

            Before he could say anything more, a bell began to peal, and Jimmy quickly sat up.

            “That’s Mom calling us, Mr. Chris. We haf’ta go inside now.”

            “Okay, kiddo. Come on out and we’ll head back in.”

            He waited patiently for the boy to crawl out of the snow fort before scooping him up and heading for the back door.

            Playtime was apparently over. And, much to his own surprise, he was genuinely sorry.

            Jimmy twisted in his arms, looking back at the snow fort. “Can we play, again, soon, Mr. Chris? I need to practice my aim ‘cause Sam can throw better’n I can.”

            “Sure we can, kiddo.”

            Jimmy snuggled in closer as the wind gusted, sending a spray of stinging snow into their faces. “What do weasels eat, Mr. Chris?”

            “I honestly have no idea, Jimmy. Mice, maybe?”

            Jimmy wrinkled his nose. “That sounds yucky.”

            “Not to a weasel, I bet.” He gave Jimmy a quick squeeze. “What do boy-weasels like to eat?”

            “Choc’late,” Jimmy said promptly. “’specially cocoa. Do you think Mommy made cocoa for us?”

            Chris kept his response light. “I don’t know, kiddo. But if she didn’t, let’s not ask for any, okay? She’s probably been pretty busy working on our Thanksgiving dinner.”

            Jimmy sighed. “Okay, Mr. Chris. That sounds sens’ble.”

            The little boy sounded resigned and dutiful. Too resigned and too dutiful for his age, Chris thought. It was obvious he would do anything to make his mother happy.

            The boy weighed next to nothing in his arms, and Chris repressed the urge to ignore the bell’s summons. He’d been here less than twenty-four hours and he was already invested in Jimmy’s best interests. In a perfect world, he’d spirit him away to somewhere and someone who would love and treasure him, as he deserved.

            Instead, he climbed the back porch steps and opened the door into the world Winona Kirk ruled.

 

*         *           *

           

            She had made cocoa, and Jimmy looked like a kid on Christmas morning as he sipped the hot liquid from his kiddy mug, his small, sock-clad feet swinging happily.

            Not that Winona seemed to notice. She was all business, hanging up the outerwear she had stripped off Jimmy with silent efficiency, and then mopping up stray spots of melted snow on the utility room floor.

            After he had carefully stored his own borrowed gear, Chris had kept Jimmy company at the kitchen table. The heat of the kitchen, along with the warmth from the cocoa, had the little boy’s eyelids drooping by the time he drained his mug, leaving a chocolate moustache behind on his upper lip.

            Coming back into the kitchen, Winona had taken one look at the boy and said with cool firmness, “Time for a rest on your bed.”

            “Do I haf’ta?”

            She wet a paper towel and handed it to Jimmy. “Wash your mouth, please. And yes, you need to take a rest. No PADD and no books.”

            Jimmy looked crestfallen but not surprised. “Okay, Mommy.”

            “You can play your music, if you keep it low.”

            “I will,” he said and slipped off the chair. Trudging to the garbage can, he disposed of the towel he had used to clean his face. Winona ignored his reluctant body language, and Chris felt a spurt of anger on Jimmy’s behalf.

            She was clearly expected Jimmy to make his own way to bed. He was just a little boy, barely out of babyhood. Where were the cuddles and hugs, the kisses and wishes for a nice nap, like he remembered his own mother giving him? And he had been a year or two older than Jimmy was now.

            Jaw set, he got to his feet. “I’m going upstairs to grab a shower. I’ll be glad to lend a hand with anything you need when I come back downstairs.”

            “You could start a fire in the living room. The bots have the fireplace cleaned out and ready to go.”

            “No problem,” Chris said, noticing that Jimmy had paused in the doorway of the kitchen. Either he was listening to their conversation or waiting to see if his mother was gong to say anything more to him. Chris feared he would be disappointed, if it was the latter.

            “Want a ride up the stairs?” he asked, walking to the little boy.

            Jimmy brightened. “My legs are kinda’ tired, Mr. Chris” he said, holding up his arms.

            Chris scooped him up and continued walking, half afraid Winona would object. “Then you’re in luck, kiddo, because mine are fit as a fiddle.”

            Jimmy lowered his head to Chris’s shoulder, snuggling in against him. “That sounds silly, Mr. Chris,” he said, sleepily.

            “It does, doesn’t it?”

            Jimmy nodded, his silky hair tickling the underside of Chris’s jaw.

            “Life is full of silly things. And strange and fascinating things, too.”

            _Like the emotionally frozen woman who was fiercely protective of her family but seemed incapable of showing them the softer side of love._

            Jimmy murmured, “I want to see all of them.”     

            Sighing, Chris started up the stairs.

*         *           *

           

            The fire was burning nicely, lending a cozy air to the room.

            It was quiet in the house, with only the occasional creak of the farmhouse, from the gusting wind, to break the silence.

            “Would you like some company? A drink? I was thinking of breaking open that bottle of Scotch.”

            He nearly jumped at the sound of her voice. Her approach had been silent and he had been lost in thought, mesmerized by the dancing flames.

            “I’d like that,” he said politely.

            Winona deftly opened the bottle and poured a finger of the amber liquid into two glasses. Carrying them over to where Chris sat, she handed him one, then turned and settled into the chair opposite him.

            “Just a taste, really,” she said. “Since one us will be using a sharp knife to carve the turkey.”

            Chris let the silence resettle around them, while he racked his brain for something to say that wouldn’t tread on tender ground.

            Winona took a small sip of the scotch. “George would have approved. He was always a scotch man, like his father. I prefer bourbon or whiskey.” She offered him a tight-lipped smile. “Something the admirals at Starfleet, remembered, no doubt.”

            “Or the person who bought the alcohol just liked scotch better.”

            “Or they thought I was less likely to get drunk on scotch.”

            Chris blinked, feeling like he had just stepped into a minefield.

            She rolled her eyes at him. “Don’t look so shocked. I’m sure Admin clued you in before you arrived.”

            “Starfleet never hinted you had an alcohol problem. Admiral Josetti did inform me that you had suffered from post-partum depression after Jimmy’s birth, and that you had received treatment for the condition, but that was the extent of anything medical in nature.”

            “What else did they tell you?”

            “Not much,” he admitted, wishing the thin folder Admiral Josetti had given him had been three times thicker. “The names of your sons. Your address. And a summary of your service record.”

            “That sounds like Starfleet. Ignore anything that doesn’t interest you or that contradicts your world-view, and focus on what remains. They’ve made their desire to have me back on active duty crystal clear.”

            “Your record as an engineer was outstanding. It’s not surprising they don’t want to lose you to a civilian life.”

            “A civilian life? Is that what you call being stuck on a farm in the middle of nowhere with two young children?”

            Chris could nearly taste the bitterness lacing her words.           

            She gave him a steely look over the rim of her glass. “I’ve shocked you, again, haven’t I?” She sighed. “This would all be so much easier if George had been the one to survive, instead of me.”

            His thoughts wanted to run in a thousand directions at once. “I’m not sure I understand.”

            “Starfleet has sold you a load of garbage, Christopher Pike. Surely, as an officer you know the script by heart? Handsome, young father sacrifices his life to save his crew and his pregnant wife? Beautiful, grieving, young widow retires from the public eye, choosing to dedicate herself to the role of motherhood in order to raise her sons, raise the hero’s sons, on his family farm, in a manner befitting his memory?”

            It was a distressingly – disturbingly – accurate summary. Hadn’t he come here fearing he would intrude on her grief and privacy at a time when the absence of George Kirk, spouse and father, would be most keenly felt? And worse, he had no idea how much of her mocking speech Winona Kirk, herself, believed.

            “I can understand that you feel much differently about George Kirk’s decision than the average person,” Chris said, his tone carefully neutral. “I wrote my thesis on the Kelvin tragedy. He made a tough call under terrible circumstances, made the ultimate sacrifice, and it saved a lot of lives. I’d call that heroic.”

            Her sad smile was genuine this time, as was the pain in her eyes. “That’s my George. I always told him he was better person than I was.” She lifted her chin. “I was right, too.”

            “Survivor’s guilt – “

            “ – is for the weak-minded. And I’m a lot of things, Chris, but weak-minded isn’t one of them.”

            She tossed back the remainder of her drink.

            “George Kirk was the love of my life. I married him because marriage, and its vows, meant something special to him. Having children did, too. He adored Sam. Claimed Sam was the best parts of me, and George’s maternal grandmother. He made every minute of leave count when he was home. His parents were alive then, so we were both able to serve at the same time.”

            “What about your family?”

            “I was a foster child from Des Moine, placed with a family about five miles away. I was ten when my parent’s died in a car crash. They were only children of only children. No handy extended family to take in the little orphan girl.”

            “I’m sorry.”

            Winona shrugged. “Not your fault. Or mine.”

            “So you met George Kirk here, in Riverside?”

            “Fifth grade. I hated it. Small school, small classes, and everybody knew your story and your business.”

            Chris gave her a lop-sided smile. “A good description of Small Town, America.”

            “I was placed in detention three times the first week. That’s when George stepped in. He showed up after school and helped me sweep the basketball court.”

            “A gentleman.”

            “He was the golden boy. Tall, smart, athletic, and from a Starfleet family, which made him practically a god in Riverside.”

            She leaned her head on the chair and stared into the fire. “And he was happy. All the damn time, rain or shine, he had a smile on his face. I tried to get rid of him by being rude. It didn’t work. I stopped sweeping and claimed I didn’t care if they punished me more. That didn’t work, either. He just smiled and kept on pushing his broom. Years later, he told me he knew I was the one that day.” A small smile curved her lips. “After we – he – finished, he walked me home. We were pretty much inseparable after that.

            I knew he was aiming for the Academy; the Kirks have been a part of Starfleet for generations. In high school, he persuaded me to join him in applying for admission. I didn’t care where I went; I just wanted to shake the dust of Riverside out of my hair once and for all. And by that time, I was in love with him, too, and couldn’t imagine a life without him. So, when he said asked me to marry him, I said yes. We held the ceremony on the Academy grounds the day after we graduated.”

            “He didn’t want to get married in Riverside?”

            Winona shook her head. “No. He knew how much I disliked it. And his parents were still in the city because they had attended his graduation.”

            “And yours,” he pointed out.

            A shadow crossed her face. “And mine,” she agreed.

            “Two celebrations in two days made for quite a trip.”

            “True. But we didn’t want to wait because I was pregnant and George wanted his parents at the ceremony.”

            “The news must have been quite a surprise to them.”

            “Tiberius and Grace were the best. They were so excited about becoming grandparents. And they were wonderful with Sam after he was born. They were the ones who mostly raised him. George and I were away on nearly back-to-back tours of duty for the first five years.” She grimaced. “George and I were going to take an extended leave of absence after the tour on the Kelvin finished, since I was pregnant, again. We wanted to spend time with Sam and introduce him to his new brother. We talked about buying a place near the coast in California.”

            “A different world from Iowa.”

            “Very. But most places are a different world from rural Iowa.” She sighed. “There are good people here, don’t get me wrong. But the farm…it’s not my place. I feel like the flatness is going to rise up and smother me.”

            “I’m sorry.”

            “Don’t be. Sam and Jimmy love it here. Jimmy especially.”

            “He seems like a happy child. And surprisingly smart for his age.”

            Winona laughed. “Sam is smart; Jimmy is something else entirely.” Sobering, she said, “He’s a genius among geniuses. Even among children classified as gifted, Jimmy is a sport. He potty trained himself at one year of age – because he read the book on my PADD on how to train a child to use the toilet. Grace had potty-trained Sam while George and I were in the black. I had no idea how to go about it, so I downloaded the book, with the idea of learning the basics before I needed them.” She shook her head. “He walked at nine months, talked at ten. He reads at the 10th grade level, and he’s just shy of three years old. He absorbs knowledge like a sponge, whether it’s math or science or history. Jimmy’s interested in _everything_. I spend a good part of my day explaining concepts and vocabulary words to him.”

            “You must be proud of him.”

            “Proud? He terrifies me. He’s a toddler and he knows more than kids five times his age. The Riverside school system is completely unprepared to manage his educational needs, much less his socio-emotional ones. To them, he’s the son of George Kirk, local boy and hero, when in reality, he’s a brilliant child with an off-the-charts I.Q. and an eidetic memory.”

            “Maybe Starfleet could be of assistance.”

            Her dark blue eyes flashed fire. “No. Starfleet Command would start searching for ways to get their hooks set deep, before he even realized what was happening. They’d want him for _who_ he was, not _what_ he is. I won’t let that happen.”

            Chris carefully swallowed the last of his scotch and set the glass down. “And what if Jimmy, or Sam, wants to follow in their Dad’s footsteps?”

            Winona gifted him with tight-lipped, humorless smile. “Not going to happen. I’ve got years to set my own hooks, the sharpest being Never-trust-a-Starfleet-officer. By the time I return to active duty, neither of my sons will think twice about joining Starfleet.” She got to her feet. “Dinner in an hour. I hope you’re hungry,” and, sweeping up her empty glass and his, left the room.

            Chris sighed, his emotions jumbled.

            Winona Kirk was certainly a forceful woman in her own right. And she seemed to be adroitly handling Jimmy’s intellectual needs. But where were the warmer motherly emotions? There had been no indication she loved Jimmy or enjoyed his sunny nature, no cute or funny stories about his daily antics, much less an acknowledgement of how much he resembled his father.

            _And what the hell was an eidetic memory?_

 

*         *           *

           

            Chris was deep into trying to teach Jimmy to whistle, when Winona announced it was time for dinner.

            “Okay, buddy, that’s enough for now. We don’t want to keep your Mom waiting.”

            The small boy looked crestfallen. He had come downstairs a half hour ago, dressed in a pair of miniature blue jeans and a dark gold crewneck sweater. And bunny slippers.

            After his earlier talk with Winona, he had no idea if she had laid the clothing out for him to put on after his nap, or if Jimmy had selected the items himself.

            “But I can’t whistle yet, Mr. Chris.”

            He scooped the boy up. “You just need to practice, Jimmy. I had to practice a lot when I was a boy, and it was a long time before I could even make a sound.” Chris hefted the boy in his hands, pretending to be judging his weight. The up-and-down motion made Jimmy squeal, then giggle. “Feels to me as if you might need to grow some, too, before your mouth is the right size for whistling.”

            “Sometimes Mommy says Sam has a big mouth. Does that mean he could learn to whistle right now?”

            “Maybe,” Chris replied, swallowing the wave of laughter Jimmy’s innocent comment had created. “But he’d still have to practice in order to become a good whistler.” He gave Jimmy a quick squeeze. “Maybe you could try and teach him how to whistle when he comes home. Do you think you can remember everything I said?”

            “A’course, Mr. Chris.” He giggled again. “I bet Sam will laugh when I tell him to say poo, so his mouth is the right shape for whistling. Sometimes, he laughs so much he falls down on the ground and holds his stomach, when he a’hears something funny.” Jimmy looked up shyly, his blue eyes shining brightly through his long lashes. “I wish you could stay with Mommy and me until Sam comes home.”

            “I wish I could, too, Buddy. But duty calls. I have a lot to take care of in San Francisco so that I’m ready to go when it’s time for my new ship to leave.”

            Jimmy sighed. “Okay, Mr. Chris.”

            “Hey, no long faces! It’s Thanksgiving and we’re about to eat the feast your Mom has fixed.”

            “Will Mommy’s food better be better’n the food on your new ship?”

            “Without a doubt,” Chris said, remembering the contents of the boxes Starfleet had shipped along with him to Riverside. “It’s just one of the things I plan to give thanks for today.”

            “What does “give thanks” mean, Mr. Chris? It sounds fun.”

            Entering the dining room, Chris stopped, taken aback by trouble Winona had gone to on their behalf.

            “In my family, before we start eating, we go around the table and each person talks about what they are thankful for that year,” he replied absently, soaking in the sight of white linen, silver, crystal and honest-to-god real candles flanking a centerpiece of gourds and scattered nuts. It was light-years from the officers’ mess hall on board his last ship.

            Winona entered, carrying the roasted turkey on a large platter. She set it on the table, and turned to pick up the carving set waiting on the sideboard.

            “Jimmy will sit here, next to me, where the booster seat is. You’ll be sitting across from us.”

            Chris was grateful for the arrangement; he had no desire to sit at the head of the table. Despite being dead, George Kirk’s spirit was present. He was glad Winona had left the seat at the head of the table empty. He settled Jimmy in his seat and placed the large napkin over his small lap.

            Winona handed him the carving tools. “I think you should carve, Chris. Your arms are longer.”

            The antique knife and fork were ornate and heavy. “I’m guessing these have been around for a few Thanksgivings.”

            “They’ve been in the Kirk family for almost three hundred years. But don’t worry; I keep them nice and sharp.”

            Chris moved the long-bladed knife back and forth, enjoying the way it flashed in the candlelight. “Maybe you should set up your sharpening stone on the front porch. This thing might dissuade a few reporters from stopping and bothering you.”

            Winona’s laughter was clear and musical. “What a good idea!” She began to put food on Jimmy’s plate. A spoonful of green beans, followed by candied sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce and stuffing, nearly filled the boy’s plate.”

            “White or dark meat, Jimmy?” he asked.

            “White, please, Mr. Chris.”

            The boy’s eyes followed his movements closely as he cut a slice of succulent meat. Winona held out Jimmy’s plate and he carefully draped it over the small mound of stuffing. Winona poured some gravy from the gravy boat over the meat before setting the plate back down in front of Jimmy.

            “Do you want me to cut your meat up?” she asked the boy.

            “Please, Mommy,” he said, nodding.

            “Winona, white or dark meat for you?”

            “Either,” she said, carefully cutting Jimmy’s slice of turkey into small squares.

            Chris placed several slices of white meat on her plate and proceeded to cut additional slices of both white and dark before serving himself. A few minutes later, they both had filled their plates with the tempting portions of the steaming side dishes. As a final touch, Winona poured them both a glass of white wine.

            “Eat up everyone,” she admonished, “before the food gets cold.”

            “But Mommy,” Jimmy protested, “we hafta’ say our ‘give thanks’ before we eat, like Mr. Chris does at his house.”

            Chris felt a hot tide of embarrassment flood his body as Winona’s expressionless gaze pinned his. “I…we were just talking…I didn’t mean…” he forced himself to take a deep breath. “I’m not expecting both of you to adopt my family’s Thanksgiving tradition. This is your home, not mine.”

            “You go first, Mommy, then Mr. Chris, then me. It’ll be fun!”

            Something flickered behind Winona’s blank stare, and she blinked. “Goodness, Jimmy, don’t bounce like that or you’ll fall off the chair.” She fussed with his napkin, re-centering on his lap, and smoothing it flat. “All right,” she said, reaching for her wine glass. After taking a sip, she said, “I’m thankful it’s stopped snowing. And that the power stayed on, so that I could cook today, and that we have a nice dinner to enjoy as a result.”

            He hadn’t expected her to suddenly wax sentimental, but it was a piss-poor offering, meeting the letter, if not the spirit, of the occasion.

            “Now you Mr. Chris.”

            “I’m thankful for this day, for this meal and most especially for the company I’m about to enjoy it with. I’m thankful for my family and friends who are celebrating far from me this year. And I give thanks for being on leave this Thanksgiving, and for my safe travels to Riverside, and for being able to share this holiday with the Kirks in their lovely home, instead of being alone.” He was surprised to realize he meant it, despite Winona’s prickly nature. “I guess that about covers it, so it’s your turn Jimmy.”

            “I sorta’ understand now what ‘give thanks’ means.” Jimmy’s face was angelic in the low light, the deep gold sweater making his hair seem even blonder than it was. “I have a lot of words that want to come out. But Mommy doesn’t want us to eat cold food, so I’ll just pick a few. I give thanks for Mommy ‘cause she knows everything and I’m lucky ‘cause I get her for my Mommy. I give thanks for Sam ‘cause he shares Darby with me and keeps me from doing dumb stuff when Mommy isn’t around. I give thanks for Mr. Chris. I wish he could stay forever but he’s got to go and fly a new ship in the stars. I give thanks for snowballs an’ snow forts an’ whistling lessons an’ chocolate. And most of all, I give thanks for the elements ‘cause me and the stars are made of the same elements, and so is my Daddy, and nothing is ever lost.” He picked up his fork. “I’m hungry. Let’s eat,” and turning words to action he began to tuck into his dinner.

 

*         *           *

           

            “That’s a big piece of pie,” Chris said, eyeing the wedge of pumpkin pie Jimmy was covering in whipped cream.

            “I can eat a lot, Mr. Chris.”

            “You must have a hollow leg, young man.”

            Jimmy giggled. “Mommy says that, too! But she says Sam has two hollow legs. He can eat mor’en me.”

            “More than,” Winona corrected, placing a slice of pie on a clean plate, them handing it to Chris.

            “More than,” Jimmy echoed obediently, licking whipped cream from his upper lip.

            “After dessert, you need to brush your teeth and change into your pajamas.”

            “Yes, Mommy.”

            The next few minutes were silent except for the scrap of forks against the dessert plates. Dinner had been completed and cleaned up several hours ago, and Winona had suggested waiting to eat pie until they’d had a chance to digest the big meal they’d just eaten.

            Chris had been glad of the reprieve from more food and even Jimmy happily concurred, his little tummy rounded from cleaning his plate. They’d done the dishes together, the three of them making short work of the task. Winona had then retired to take a nap, while he and Jimmy had played a number of card games, interspersed with repeated whistling lessons. Chris couldn’t say Jimmy was getting any better but he admired his diligence. The little boy displayed an incredible attention span for his age.

            Now, with the day coming to an end, Chris knew the end of his trip to Riverside was also within sight.

            Jimmy seemed to read his mind. “When do you hafta’ leave, Mr. Chris?”

            “After lunch tomorrow, Jimmy. Now that the snow storm has moved on, the roads will get plowed, making it safe to travel.”

            “Will you ride on a shuttle?”

            “I sure will. I’ll get to see all kinds of interesting things on the ride, too. If I’m lucky, we’ll fly over my home on the way to Starfleet Headquarters in San Francisco.”

            Jimmy looked puzzled. “I thought’ed your home was in San Francisco.”

            “San Francisco is where Starfleet Command is headquartered, so I come and go on my assigned duties from there. But the cabin, my real home, is in the Mojave Desert.”

            Jimmy’s eyes grew wide. “You have a house in the desert? With snakes, and lizards and scorpions?”

            “It’s more like a cabin than a house. But, you’re right. There are a lot of strange creatures who live in the desert, compared to those you’d find in Iowa.”

            “I’m gonna read about it on my new PADD!” Jimmy exclaimed, bouncing in his chair at the kitchen table. “May I be excused, Mommy?”

            “Yes,” Winona said. “But get ready for bed first.”

            “Okay,” he said, climbing down. “I bet scorpions are deadly!”

            Chris watched Jimmy race off with a grin. “He’s all boy. Will reading about them give him nightmares?”

            Winona shook her head and began to stack up the empty plates. “Never. He sleeps like a rock once he’s asleep. Sam is a restless sleeper but not Jimmy.”

            “I wish I’d had the opportunity to meet Sam before I left.”

            He didn’t expect her to say, “Stay longer” or “Perhaps another time”, and she didn’t. Instead, she carried the dishes to the sink before saying, “Your visit will give Jimmy something of his own to brag about to Sam, for quite a while. Which he’ll need, because Sam is going to be full of tales about the ocean and New Disneyworld.”

            She was pulling away again, politely putting distance between him and her family.

            Which he couldn’t blame her for doing. He was about to head into the black, on an extended tour of duty, and wouldn’t be on Earth for holiday, or any other kind of visit, for a long time. Jimmy was barely out of babyhood, and couldn’t be expected to remember a man he had spent two days with, however fun and entertaining their time together had been, with any reliability. Now, if he had been Sam’s age…

            “Don’t try to contact Jimmy. Or send him messages. Or gifts.” Winona spoke with her back to him, her hands tightly clasping the sink edge. “I don’t want him thinking the black is some sort of adventure, like Sam’s trip to New Disneyworld. The black already took my husband. I won’t let it take my sons, too.”

            Chris swallowed hard. “I understand. Even if I don’t agree, I understand.” He firmed his jaw. “But answer one question for me? Why are you going back? Why do you get to be the exception to your rules?”

            She swung around to face him, her eyes hot. “Because I’m going to find the bastards who killed George and make them pay. Even if the attempt kills me.”

            “And what about your sons? They’re only boys. Do you really want them to lose their remaining parent?”

            “I’ll wait until they can manage on their own or I can make some other arrangements for their welfare. But unless someone else finishes the job for me, I intend to go. It’s just a question of time, once I get Starfleet to agree. And judging from the things you brought along with you, they’re just about ready to give me any assignment I want, if it means they get me back on active duty.”

            Something had died in her when George Kirk sacrificed his life. The spark that made her soft, made her loving, made her a _mother,_ was gone.

            God help Jimmy and his brother.

            He wanted to rage at her, make her see what was right under her nose.

            Instead, he said, “I’ll say goodnight, then. And I’ll do the same with Jimmy on my way to my room. Sleep well, Winona.”

            Turning his back on her, he walked away.

           

*          *           *

           

            The time he had been dreading all day, arrived.

            Breakfast and another snowfort battle had come and gone. As had the tasty lunch of leftovers from Thanksgiving dinner. He had packed before lunch and stowed his gear in the car, which had been freed from its snow mound.

            Now there was nothing to do but say good-bye to Jimmy.

            Chris hunkered down beside the small boy in the front hallway, a part of him amazed at the difference two days could make.

            Jimmy was dressed in his blue Starfleet gear instead of a too-small shirt and ancient underwear. He wore sturdy shoes instead of being barefooted.

            But the biggest change couldn’t be seen.

            Love, unexpectedly, had taken root in his heart and he wanted to scoop Jimmy into his arms and run away with him.

            Instead of doing something so foolish and precipitous, he put a finger under Jimmy’s trembling chin and lifted his face until he look into his eyes.

            “You’ve been the best yeoman I’ve ever had.”

            Big tears had pooled in Jimmy’s eyes. “Is that true, Mr. Chris?”

            “It is. Cross my heart.”

            “I’m gonna miss you so much, Mr. Chris.” One tear, then another dropped.

            “I’m going to miss you, too, James Tiberius Kirk. Maybe we’ll see each other again, some day, when you’re older.”

            “If I see you, I’ll whistle,” Jimmy murmured.

            “Me, too, buddy. Me, too. Now give me a hug. A big one. One that I’ll remember long after I’m in the black.”

            Jimmy through himself into Chris’s arms, and Chris carefully returned the desperate, clutching hug. Finally, he pulled back, using two thumbs to dry Jimmy’s woebegone face.

            “Time for me to go,” Chris said, his voice husky. “You can wave to me from the living room window.”

            Jimmy nodded but didn’t move.

            Chris slipped out the door, shutting it firmly behind him. The porch, steps and walkways had been swept clean of snow, making his short journey to the e-car an easy one.

            With the neighbors help this morning, he had freed the car from its covering of snow, then repositioned it, turning it around to face the highway, figuring it would be easier to drive straight ahead, down the driveway, than try to turn the car around on his own. He opened the driver’s-side door and hesitated, before throwing caution to the winds and looking back at the house.

            Jimmy stood in the living room window, a bright spot of color in all the whiteness. He had pressed the palms of his hands at head level against the windows and was leaning his forehead on his hands, forlorn.

            Chris raised his hand, intending to wave, and instead...instead he found himself snapping off a smart salute to the little boy. He held himself at attention for a long moment, hoping Jimmy was recognizing the salute for what it was – a declaration of respect and admiration, and a solemn promise that he wouldn’t forget their fledgling friendship.

            To his utter astonishment, Jimmy saluted him back, his tiny body arrow-straight.

            Chris relaxed the salute, grinning broadly.

            Jimmy dropped his hand and began to wave madly. From here, with the air so coldly still and quiet, he could hear him giggling.

            Chris slid into the car, his heart suddenly feeling lighter.

            Pulling carefully out of the drive and onto the highway, he engaged the automatic function on the e-car and leaned back into the worn upholstry.

            As the snow-coverd countryside swept by, he began to smile.

            He had traveled far in two days.

            From Mr. Man to Mr. Chris.

            From irritation to laughter.

            From annoyance to delighted awe.

            From a bringer of gifts, to being gifted with love and trust.

            Next year, every year, those were things he would mention at whatever Thanksgiving table he sat at, when he gave thanks for the blessings he’d received.

            Chris began to hum, the happy tune a perfect accompaniment to his resolution.

            “All around the mulberry bush,  
            The monkey chased the weasel.  
            The monkey thought 'twas all in fun,  
            Pop! Goes the weasel.

 

The End

 


End file.
